The Cyclic Artist

The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here. Like the character of a beginning storybook, I’m surrounded by blank canvasses just waiting for divine inspiration. The white walls scream at me, the absence of colour irritating them beyond belief. Their voices call me the artist, but why? Am I the artist, or a detective in search of clues? I turn around slowly, spying at the blank walls. But there’s nothing. No way in. No way out. The walls are flat and empty. A haunting feeling infuses my inner being as I find myself staring at these walls like they’re a mirror, reflecting the blank slate of my mind. Into my hollow memory, voices speak of past recollections, but I am numb to their beckons. The enigmatic words ring with forgotten familiarity and yet dance all the same with a strange self-discovering. Until I find my lost experiences, I am no more than the emptiness that binds me. I stand in the center of nothing, and yet nothing resides in the center of me.

I clench my right hand in a fist and bite at my lower lip, staring mindlessly at the screaming walls for the hundredth time. What to do. What to do. The words plant seeds of ever-increasing questions. Where to start. Where should it begin? The suffocating vines grow. An artist without inspiration is no creator at all, but where does inspiration live? Without memory, I have nowhere to begin my discoveries. My fingers clench tighter. I expect my nails to puncture my skin, but rather, my hand clasps around the smooth surface of a marker. Yes, this tool for inspiring art. How it got in my hand, I wish I’d remember, but I can’t. Nevertheless, it whispers visions in my ear, tempting me to make use of its creative magic. These canvasses scream. The marker softly mutters. I am trapped between the desires of inspiration and genius. The power I wield is far greater than I can imagine. In my grasp is the ability to change my current circumstances, to help this white room smile with the vibrancy of my own imagination. As the creator that I seem to be, I fall victim to the alluring artistry. I am attracted by its ability to vanquish the sickening void inside my head and become immersed in its gravitational pull.

Cautiously, I bring my hand up to the walls, unlocking the freedom trapped inside the marker. The first stroke invites a wonderland of possibilities. Images of events, familiar yet foreign, take shape on the boarders, their colours coming to life with every added line and motion. Mountains erupt from the army of pine trees. A river flows playfully toward me. I glaze the blue sky with clouds of cotton and squawking birds that point their direction toward the North. I revel in the beauty, am swallowed by the majesty. As the images take form, so my soul finds solace. The more I draw, the more I find consolation.

I take my marker to the ceiling and discover the wonders of the night sky. I colour in planets, the blackness of space and its stars. Every burst of new light displays marvelous power. Galaxies wrap their arms around the precious gems of life and sing songs of infinite exploration. I struggle to pinpoint where these images come from, for their familiarity tells my soul of past moments forgotten. Spaceships soar across the vastness of the heavens and admire my ethereal creations. With marker in hand, I dance with the stars, with the hope floating finally in my reach. I can see the future, see the energy from which all beauty is birthed. Awestruck wonder feels so intimate, and yet it’s something I only just discovered.

I descend from space to spy another empty canvas wall. Only now, the marker bids me to discover tragedy. Hot flames erupt from the tip, scorching the canvas with images of blackened pine trees. Fear boils in my soul as orange tongues lick the houses. Destruction hauntedly unveils itself, and I am suddenly filled with unimaginable rage. The emotion embeds in my soul and ignites a trauma in my mind. I panic. My heart beats fiercely in my chest. I try to breathe, but smoke chokes my lungs. And yet while I suffocate, I am comfortable in the anger, in the terror, the hurt and guilt. But why? The puzzle of my life pieces itself together, and the beauty self-discovery turns into a fear of the unknown, depraved aspects of humanity. What was once an innocent mind is born into a world of awe and wickedness, cursing and forever altering the original work of art.

I am tossed from the devilish flames. There, on the next canvas, the marker compels me to discover the sunshine. I draw every spec of sand on the island and know them all by name. Dolphins leap around the island and sun-bathing turtles relax near the shore. I speak life into the waves. I hear them crashing and feel the cool of water on my skin. A smile grows on my face at the laughing dolphins, at the sweet taste of the warm air. Submerged in the waters below, I colour the white base of my timeless box. I dive into the ocean, draw the pleasant fish as they follow me in the current. Mirroring the lights in the night sky, I form sea stars and shells and underwater trees. Once my work is done, I swim to the surface to complete my world

The marker inspires a very different kind of emotion, one originating in the depths of the heart. Two hands are clasped together, bathed in the affectionate haze of the pink setting sun. Figures dance to the rhythm of pulsing hearts, the moments the two share igniting a familiar sense of comfort inside my soul. These characters share a movie together, dinner and dessert. It’s like the two of them can’t get enough of each other, just as I can’t get enough of my art. I want more. I want the fullness of life, the memories and emotion inside of it. I’m in love with the craft like the figures I know so well. Sweet perfume and the commanding fragrance of cologne taunt my mind with an unclear image of warm comfort. But it’s more than just contentment. The feeling grows into affection and adoration. It forms into unconditional, addicting love. This soothes my soul and repairs the damage caused by the fires of anger.

I turn around, admiring my creations. I built a world, a life of my own from the fragments of past events. How does one world produce such adventures for each individual? How does one planet hold the vast experiences of thousands and thousands of generation? Through my eyes of artistry, I see the timeline of wisdom parading its ribbon throughout my mind. Nostalgia infuses my sight, the well in my eyes gradually filling. I lay down in the grasses by the river and gaze up at the shooting stars as they deliver the wishes of thousands of little children to the Wish Keeper himself. I gaze upon every emotion I felt, from awe, to anger, and happiness to love. The memories all form together like the pieces to a puzzle, crafting a forgotten image of myself. But alas, the stars begin to melt away. Black drops of night fall into the river and taint the beauty of crystal clear water. My heart starts to race. My creation is fading. I reach with my marker to patch up the stars, but the tip has run dry. The art is gone. The colour has vanished. I search desperately for anything to save my world, but there’s nothing. The inspiration dies away. The marker falls from my hand. As hard as I try to hold back, my chin quivers, and a drop turns into a river down my cheek. In the images on the walls, I had found every part of myself. I’d found anger, happiness, love, and awe. Now, sadness spends all of its coins and buys my powerless status.

I look up, see the beauty of stars and space and planets all melting away. I spin around, frantic to save my imagination. I run to the hills, cup my hands to catch the river as it pours down from the wall. My fingers pinch together tightly, but nothing stops the rain. My efforts prove to be futile. The river runs through my fingers. The mountains bow down into the trees. The islands sink into the ocean, and the ocean fads into the walls. My drawings cascade like a waterfall, and so my memories fade away just the same. Love dies. Awe dies. Anger falls deep into the grave, taking happiness down with it. Now sadness holds fast to my mind. Powerless, I stand in the middle of the white room, crying desperately for something to save the world I had built. My life is shattering. My characters are dying. My hands are tied behind my back with a gun pointed to my head. It’s done. It’s time that the fun comes to an end. Tears stream down my cheeks and drip from my quivering chin, the images continuing to fade. Finally, the last of my conscience vanishes. My world is gone, and so am I. In the midst of the white room, I become hollow again, empty like the canvasses around me. I have lost the inspiration. I have lost the artist. I have lost myself.

Just as my memories vanished along with the emotions, so sadness lets me go. I cough, suck in a deep breath as I sit up painfully. Sadness’s grip loosens, and my tears dry up. Where did I go? Where are the fading recollections that spoke to my identity? I stare at the walls, questions upon questions emerging inside my empty mind. They echo with foreknowledge. Yes, something had bothered me, but what was it? I feel a faint sensation of grief, but then it’s gone. The artist fades away, and I am alone, emotionless, empty. Now, I am nothing, just like the screaming canvas walls. But how did I get here? In the depths of my mind, I hear voices trying to tell me what I experienced, but their words are too distorted to make use. The enigmatic phrases ring with forgotten familiarity, and yet they are still so foreign. I stand up, my eyebrows furrowing with concentration as I stare at the white walls surrounding me.

The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here.