Reminisce till delirium

Rubbing the tiredness away, sipping the hot coffee till my tongue burns, and pealing my lip skin have become a habit every time I’d wake from a nightmare. I would let the coffee burn the tip of my tongue while I would hold the plastic cup tightly till my palms would turn red. It served as a great distraction from the images I would see but today, I accidentally put salt instead of sugar into my Nescafé leaving a vile taste on my tongue. I walk from the bed to the table throwing the coffee right in the dustbin. I need another distraction to adopt, so I sit and look around the table. I realize my laptop has been left unused for quite a while, and the thin coat of dust proves it so I grab it, turn it on, and before the pointer lands on the google icon my eyes land on the amount of email I’ve received, a 100+ is stapled on the top right.  

A mindless scroll through my emails isn’t something I would crave but still, I click on my emails waiting eagerly for what’s to be read, and surprisingly, the most unexpected email is on top being the most recent, an art competition. I click to read more and skim through the site. It’s due within a month and its theme is "my childhood".

I couldn’t care to read what price would the winner get; I’m not even participating; I just know it’s the perfect activity to indulge myself in at the moment. I clip my hair up, wake from the seat, and walk to the sitting room where all my paintings lay. The old paintings are displayed on the left wall, filled with vibrant hues while the recent ones are hung on the right wall, touched by the dullest of shades, most of them though being left unfinished. The wall ahead is occupied by the large painting taking up half the window.  

The painting was my late mother's treasure. An admired piece of canvass passed down generations in the family. My mother owned a museum and surprisingly, amid all her great paintings, this one has hung up at the highest point of the museum signifying it to be the most important. Whenever we’d pass by it while my mother would hold my hands she’d glow with great veneration, turn to look at me, and I’d never return the look back. The painting was on display for years up till no longer than two months ago, when I had been informed that this painting, which they claim to be so valuable is inherited by me. I was angry, and I still am of the fact that all my mother’s paintings were distributed to the three of my sisters while I only had this one.  

The horse has its mouth agape, its eyes unlatched, and it seems to be almost as if it's disappearing, appearing slightly invisible, reflecting the vast land of greens behind while it bows its head to the woman. The woman's left hand touches its muzzle while her right one slightly digs its throat latch. Her dark curled hair sways with the wind, her head is tilted to her right and faced to the left, her lips angled to a slight smile, and her eyes are directed to the top left of the painting.  

My mother would speak in depth about the meaning of the painting, saying the horse signifies the woman’s past, her youth, and how she’s clung to it. I stand the easel and position it Infront of the painting, grab a stool from the kitchen counter, and place it Infront of the easel, I adjust the height, tilt the arms, move the clamps, and move the small table closer to the canvas. I grab almost all the acrylics and brushes from the room and set them on the table, looking at the empty stack of canvasses, ranging from the smallest to the largest, I pick the largest, being twenty by thirty in size.  

I was taught to always put films into the canvass, give them depth, a meaning, then serve them to the audience. I applied this concept at the age of eight it was a painting of a dream I had the night before, of roses sunk into the ocean, I never understood why my family members were stunned. I look at the time, 7:52 am and flip the tabletop clock around. Grabbing the mars black, I apply it to the palette, dip the brush into it, and lightly touch the canvass. Most of my paintings are inspired by my dreams, most of which are filled with a specific horse. 

I’d see this horse in almost every dream. Earlier when I’d started dreaming about this horse, roughly when I was around five, it would be distant, standing from afar, lately, however, it would be close. Close to the point where it would be running towards me, full of speed, and I’d be standing there till its hooves would strike my forehead and crush my bones, I was able to feel every single injury in the dream, but what hurts me most is how the horse’s angry bulging eyes, snarling mouth, and ruthlessness resembles my father. I mix in Vandyke brown to its neck; I usually add the lightest colors last. 

My father wouldn’t be considered one if I was to describe what one should act like. Since he was present, that being on my fifth birthday, till I was eighteen was filled with his yells, hits, and comments. After silhouetting the horse, I add bits of titanium white to it, starting from its nostrils to its hooves, spreading the right amount across its body perfectly. I never got praised for resurrecting visions to life by my father, if any positive reaction, it would be an unplanned eye contest, an “ok” leaving his lips, and it would end with him walking away. My mother couldn’t do much about the situation. Since she would get to see his mercilessness alone, she eventually got quieter over the years.  

The woman would often appear with the horse in the dream. She would be either injured or dead but always lie against a tree. It seems as if she would get stomped by the horse too. I’d always look at her while the hooves would engrain my bones, and I’d wait to wake up. I paint the woman side-faced. Her hair is ribbon-like, waving up till her lower back, her lips are thin-lined Rosey, and her eyes open wide. I turn the tabletop clock facing me to see that I have been painting for five hours straight. I don’t usually take breaks but hunger gets the best of me this time. I turn behind towards the tiny kitchen and boil pasta.  

Walking back to the stool, I realize how much I’ve painted. I don’t usually paint this big, or even this much, I usually ignore how I feel and focus on the outcome. I’ve heard emotions could ruin your career if not controlled. Maybe anger is the only emotion I’ll let ruin the piece. I don’t find it hard to get angry, in fact, I’d grown some wrinkles as a sign of internal rage and that’s still being in my early twenties. I paint the rest of the woman. Her silk dress shines against the noon.

Suddenly it smells like burnt pasta. I turn around turning off the heat. Feeling hungry and unbothered I open the fridge for some jam. I have a collection of flavors. Peaches aren’t the best, strawberries aren’t that good, and cherries shouldn’t have been on the market, but blueberries remain my favorite jam since I first tried them. I make a blueberry sandwich, move the extra utensils from the tiny table to the ground, and place the plate. I was expecting the anger to last for what I’d paint next, but jam changes my mood quick.  

My love for jams came from my mother. We had a variety of fruit plants in our backyard. From strawberries to peaches, to mangoes, to blueberries, and even more. However, the mulberry tree was a childhood favorite. I, my sisters, and my mother would pick the best-looking fruits from the backyard every Friday. I take a bite from the sandwich and continue painting, I’m mixing mars brown with red. Whenever we’d run out of fruits me and my sisters would steal a few, only a basket from the neighbors, their fruits were bitter, not as close to being as sweet as ours, and whenever we’d try the Neighbour's jams, they never tasted as good as my mother’s. Leaves are time-consuming to paint, I have to mix the perfect green with white.

Being almost done with the painting, I check the tabletop clock and realize for the first time, that I haven’t flipped the clock around. I would tend to do that, to stop checking the time and getting distracted, it’s another four hours I’m sitting painting. I add the final tint of Prussian green and take the last bite of the sandwich, I still do think no jam could compare to the ones my mum would make. 

The painting is completed. The black horse, in its side view, glistens against the bright sun, stretching its neck towards the woman. It seems to be as if it's calling her, trying to touch her hair with its nostrils to get her attention but fails to move its body while the woman is facing against the horse, her back facing its front. Her eyes are wide, scared that the horse will move. The mulberry tree is behind them, easing the atmosphere, but not able to contribute any form of help. I stare into the painting, understanding its every detail, feeling the painting’s setting, horse, woman, and the mulberry tree to be a great illustration of my childhood.  

The room slowly dims, the sun dips into the mountains, and I’m left understanding my mum’s look towards her favorite painting.