Canvas.

Canvas.

“I can’t sleep.” He whispers to himself underneath the soft covers of his bed.

The neon lights from his alarm clock radiate a warm red tone against the dull shadows found in his room. 2:27 AM. Outside the window the city continues its emphatic atmosphere; the light sound of rain doesn’t interfere, as if it could run forever. Perhaps it could, it had never stopped and waited for him.

Malcolm shuffles in his bed as his body slowly sits up. Exhaustion had made him ill, and the bags under his eyes hadn’t changed, just like the state of the room. He doesn’t focus on the dust collecting along the shelves and floors, nor does he focus on the several canvases tossed around the room, his gaze shifts towards the empty wooden easel on his desk. He feels like it's mocking him, acting forever as a reminder of the presence of a dullness in his mind. His easel melds together with the rest of his bedroom – out of life, out of color.

“Why…why can’t I sleep?” He whispers again.

He’s expecting a voice from the silence to emerge - it never does, he’s alone in more ways than one. The battle in Malcolm’s mind had harvested since the moment he touched his first paintbrush and gave the canvas meaning.

The typical young mind of a seven-year-old is propelled into a world where they can’t recognize anything but who or what is important to them – who Mom is, who Dad is, and what’s at the table for dinner. Other times, the repetitive sounds of cheers and compliments take over a child, their path laid out for them like a railway. Their parents tell them how proud they are, how important their success is to them, and the promise of a good life; however, that doesn’t always happen…doesn’t it? Malcolm’s passion didn’t lie with medicine or law, it never had – his path was set for him the moment he created art. His love for art would go beyond the canvas, beyond the arguments with his Father, and beyond himself. Way beyond himself

The first piece of art Malcolm had made became fuel for the fireplace, his parents had gotten cold again. The second piece was his tear-soaked notebook. Drawings of the faces of people he had met and who he had loved filled every page, capturing moments of euphoria throughout several years. That notebook was flung across his room recently, trapped against the wall, with the faces of his Mother and Father crossed out again. And again. Despite his work and his years of practice, he could never capture the exact expression of disappointment, which seemed too unparalleled to replicate. 

“Is everyone else asleep?” A soft murmur comes from his lips.

Malcolm’s gaze shifts to the window, to the outside world around him. They lived amongst the city, complementing each other in a way that could almost be described as elegant. His inspiration became his critique every time he stroked with the brush. He, alongside his work, became intertwined – Malcolm became his art. What Malcolm found beautiful about art was its ability to display every emotion he had felt when he couldn’t. His work had been painted with anguish and melancholy thoughts before it had slowly faded away – it had become bare.

The canvases in his room remained bare for weeks; untouched and unloved. Their plastic coat was slightly ripped apart but nothing further from that, it was too hard to create now of all times. For god's sake, think. Malcolm’s thoughts infiltrate his mind again through the clouded window and the silence of his room. To him, it became overwhelming – what is life, what is art without a muse? 

With a groan, Malcolm threw his covers off and stood up right as he headed to his kitchen. The hallways were as barren and dark as the rest of the apartment, he reached for the light switch before he halted. Right, bills. His hand retracted, peeking through the rooms as he walked. Each was shaded with monotone features; the symmetry was almost nerve-wracking. 

“Why…why am I the only one who can’t sleep?”

Malcolm pinches the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh, finding peace in the silence of his house. It had rarely felt the ambiance of guests, but the feeling of sanitation was even more scarce. The soft creaks of the hardwood floors paused as Malcolm reached his kitchen and opened the fridge door, squinting at the sudden arrival of light. With a heavy sigh, a frown forms on his face, noticing the empty shelves – it is barren except for a carton of eggs, a few sauces, and a few spare noodle cups. He shakes his head and closes the door, reaching for the first glass he finds and turning on the tap. Malcolm brings it to his lips, being hit with the strange taste of water – metallic, it's unsettling. 

“Do I deserve to sleep?” 

A thought runs in Malcolm’s mind as he gazes out across his apartment. His walls hang several of his pieces from his later works. Malcolm had formed a habit recently to change his decorations once he made a new piece, especially if it didn’t sell. His several other works prior stacked up against the wall, all contrasting colors and shades, but never one with the passion he had felt years ago. It wasn’t right, Malcolm protested in his mind. It wasn’t fair. He knew all along that something had been lost, something from his life that shook the railway tracks. 

Malcolm sets down the cup in his hands, wiping his face with his hand as his heart remains quiet. He notices the mess of his kitchen counters, shifting towards the murky sink, filled with dirty mugs and uncleaned knives. …No. He shakes his head before walking through the hallways once more, back to his room, and sits on the edge of his bed. His room was still peaceful, yet his mind grew bolder and louder. For a moment, Malcolm’s gaze shifted towards his arms – gently tracing over the several scars again and again. 

“Maybe…maybe not.” He lets out a final whisper.

The gentle touch on his arm gives him a sense of comfort in a house so bitter. It felt like his own sense of inspiration, his own muse. What the notebooks and easels couldn’t express his body could, in his own special way; in a way where he didn’t need anything else to feel. His body was the perfect canvas.