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Christian understood that loneliness felt the same in a penthouse as it did on Skid Row. A gifted painter, his freelance gigs and occasional commissions kept the lights on, but his heart was somewhere else.
With the hour approaching midnight, he slumped over a drawing pad in his tiny makeshift studio. He raked a hand through his dark hair and focused his intense brown eyes as he began penciling a concept for the cover of an independent bridal magazine.
There was no light in the room aside from a lamp above the artist’s drawing table. The lead line to the etheric “A Love Supreme” emanated through laptop speakers. Strewn across the workspace were all the tools of the trade: pencils, paintbrushes, tubes of oil paint, and of course, a steaming cup of black coffee. “There’s nothing like Coltrane and coffee to get you through a long night,” Christian often said.
In a short while, a rough sketch was just about complete, a standard depiction of a blushing bride holding a bouquet of flowers. Regardless, the consummate perfectionist, Christian couldn’t get the eyes to his liking. He erased them and redrew them countless times. No matter what, he was dissatisfied with the results. The eyes had a sort of sadness about them. Not the best portrayal of a new bride.
Eventually, his own eyelids feeling heavy, Christian eased back into his seat to collect himself, while the strained notes from Coltrane’s tenor sax chugged on. As always, when the hour was late and his time was idle, Christian found himself thinking about the world and his place in it.
He had spent a lifetime searching for truth, for happiness, for love. The stack of books scattered across his bedroom was ample proof of that. Every subject on the metaphysical was covered, from hauntings and ET visitations to ancient mystery religions and even a recent addition on demonology, complete with incantations.
However, the deep, spiritual sense of knowing he craved had always eluded him. He was that skeptical kid in Sunday school who, to his teacher’s dismay, begged to know who created God, yet another question for which he never received a sufficient answer. It appeared faith would also remain out of reach. Christian’s thoughts gradually became disordered, and before he knew it, he was fast asleep.
Slicing through the night, a booming monotone voice came with a cryptic message: “Tonight, you hold in your hand the power to manifest that which you desire. Be forewarned, the path to enlightenment is not a straight line.”
Christian was then roused by a sudden crash. He quickly sat up and scanned the room but saw nothing. I must’ve been dreaming, he thought. He tried to assess how long he had been out, observing that the music had ceased and the coffee was cold.
Yawning lazily and stretching his sinewy arms, Christian heard another thud that clearly came from within the room. Springing to his feet, his eyes began to adjust to the dim surroundings. Something stirred just a few feet away.
A figure, shining a luminescent silvery-white, lurched toward Christian with outstretched arms, grasping at empty space. Christian recoiled in terror and fell back onto the table, causing his mug to tip over. Its dark liquid contents spread like a molten stream across the surface of his incomplete drawing.
Simultaneously, the thing in front of him began to dissipate. He looked on in horror and disbelief as a wedding gown-clad woman with no eyes dissolved into nothing.
Christian rushed over and switched on the main light. Coffee dripped onto the hard wood floor, but nothing else appeared out of place – until he looked down in front of him.
There, lay a bouquet of flowers, which he hesitantly picked up for closer inspection. To his amazement, they were the exact same flowers he had sketched for the magazine cover. Christian slid down to the floor and sat with his back against the wall and his feet out in front of him, desperately trying to process what had happened. It was as real as anything he had ever experienced, yet it made absolutely no sense.
His mind filled with a kaleidoscope of thoughts, each more far-fetched than the last. Had he seen a ghost? Did another dimension’s reality bleed over into his own? Had he inadvertently created some sort of thought form? Only one explanation seemed feasible to Christian. He concluded that he had officially gone over the edge.
He wanted nothing more than to hop in his car and go as far as it would take him, but answers were needed. Christian recalled the message he received while sleeping. “Tonight, you hold in your hand the power to manifest that which you desire. Be forewarned, the path to enlightenment is not a straight line.”
Racking his brain for what to do next, he was struck by a eureka moment. I’ll conduct a little experiment – except this time, the lights stay ON.
Standing in front of an easel, Christian picked up his paint brush and began to meticulously fill the canvas with his hopes and dreams. He worked feverishly into the night, making sure to capture every detail of his mind’s eye. If he truly had a shot at turning fantasy into reality, he was not going to squander it.
After several diligent hours of work, he was done. It was near dawn and Christian was anxious to see his creation realized. He didn’t know any magic words or chants to recite. He half expected nothing to happen at all. And nothing did happen.
For almost ten minutes, Christian stood looking at his painting feeling every bit the fool. He began laughing out loud like a man at the brink of madness. Why did he ever think that would work? Maybe he was as crazy as people had always said? Satisfied with that assessment, he retired to his bedroom and closed his tired eyes.
It was then that Christian felt a presence in the room with him. His adrenaline began to rise, but he fought the urge to sit up in his bed. He was half afraid that his manifestation would disappear if he made a move to see it. He just kept his eyes locked on the ceiling. Then he heard the unmistakable sound of footfalls as someone walked toward him.
His experiment was a success.
Christian shot up in his bed. After one glance he knew his search was over. Like an offering to the Gods, a beautiful young woman stood before him in the soft twilight. She had flawless golden skin that seemed to glow against the simple white dress she wore and her cascading raven hair framed an angelic face.
Christian couldn’t blink, much less turn away. Her perfectly proportioned and shapely body summoned his full attention, yet it did nothing to undermine the innocence in her doe eyes.
Finally, Christian was able to break the trance he was in long enough to speak. “I’ve waited my whole life for this moment.”
The woman wet her pouty lips as if she were about to respond, but nothing came out.
Christian crawled to her. He had to touch her and know that she was flesh and blood. With his paint stained hand, he carefully rubbed her cheek as though she were a rare and delicate flower.
The girl pulled away.
“What’s wrong?” Christian asked. “I won’t hurt you.”
Starting to tremble slightly, she looked at Christian as if she were an alien who knew nothing of this world.
Christian squeezed her arms tightly. “Please speak to me," he demanded. "I need you.”
The beautiful girl broke away from his grasp and fled for sanctuary like a gazelle running from a hungry lion. But this lion only craved love.
Christian realized the error of his expectations. His brush could only capture the flesh, not his intent. The picture on the canvas, no matter how lovely, was devoid of wisdom and culture. She was merely a creature of instinct.
Again, he recalled the voice he had heard in his sleep. “The path to enlightenment is not a straight line.”
Inside that moment, it sounded like a cruel joke, but the tortured artist knew it was true. Nothing had ever come easy for him and he figured nothing worth having ever would.
The first rays of the morning sun streamed through the window, making the night‘s events seem distant and unreal. Unceremoniously, Christian waved his paint brush across the canvas to excise the nightmare entirely. His perfect creation was replaced by a crimson Rorschach blot, which, if explored, he was certain would expose his insanity.
But self-analysis would have to wait until another time. Christian was exhausted, both mind and body. He collapsed onto his bed and into a deep, dreamless sleep.
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