The Artist Breathes : A creative short
She had an affinity for cheap perfume and every form of alcohol known to man except the rubbing kind. The love affair of scents was immoral. She appeared at my inconvenience- right as I broke from my bedsheets and leapt to my computer.
At the corner of my bed like a mother checking in on her child- but lacked all empathy. To Pry and poke my patience. To mock my efforts.
Why wont you let me breathe? Huh…
Why wont you let me be?
I thought, as her strangeness became unsettling. Yet, I never spoke it aloud. I knew she’d only hail a wicked laugh and expel her tormented breathe all over me.
I couldn’t think straight when she was around.
She sat with her eyes fixated on me until I broke the gaze from my computer screen. The more I focused on the page the more I felt her eyes press against my forehead. Nothing got done. Nothing. Not a single thought erupted.
She enjoyed this.
She new the moment my fingers lapped the keyboard she’d drift into oblivion. She wouldn’t keep my attention much longer.
And she liked attention.
She was a queer succubus- void of innate sex appeal and promiscuity. Yet, she found my creative attempts orgasmic. For every unwritten piece a jolt of energy replenished her anorexic body.
I needed to escape this mental torture. I needed to breathe.
An artist must breathe.
My breath was held from the moment I woke, to the time I faced my bed again in the evening. A long time without air.
A long time for an artist to be in limbo.
To let this foul thing win would be the death of me.
The routine continued until one morning...
She sat at the base of my bed once more. Keeping the comforter taut with her toothpick figure. I pretended she was just a another weird shadow on the wall. Nothing to go on about.
She proceeded to speak. But her words traveled no where beyond her plagued palette.
My hand performed for the first time.
A sentence was born.
The air was silent. And the boisterous being became a mime of mockery- Laughing painfully loud without a sound. Bulbous veins echoed from her translucent neck. And Her shadow grayed onto the floor.
She was gone.
For the moment.. she was gone.
We had won the battle. As a banner of words waved triumphantly on the screen a stream of creativity put a smile on both our faces.
We weren’t scared anymore.
Each day she attempted to return. But her presence no longer kept me from the page.
Her rum fueled voice fizzled out into the air.And each day I saw her die.
Until one day I didn’t care to witness it.
I knew she was gone when the air grew fresh- when my thoughts flooded the lobby of my fingertips.
I allowed this devilish entity to deprive me of my true nature for so long, I had forgotten the warmth of words. I was now stitching them together so fervently and with such confidence and freedom I wondered why I let her stop me in the first place.
The mind. It can work with you or against you.
It is where all suffering, happiness, creativity and fear reside. And I had allowed fear to dwell comfortably in my conscious.
I had internalized it all. Personified fear into flesh. Made her real. And told of our story.
I created this… fear.
My creative mind couldn’t coexist with such a demon so willing to divert my attention solely to her.
I took a deep breathe in. And slowly out.
Classical piano played soft in the background married with white noise from the console. The keyboard tabs felt like needles until they softened into cotton pads- More-so like cotton candy as they stuck together from the sugary goodness of words.
No one talks about the magic of creative flow. Your vessel numbs and your mind floats freely. Its like watching a montage of smiles in slow motion- its mesmerizing.
Fear sleeps sound in the depths of my mind now. And in her slumber I work to keep her there. I let my pen and keyboard speak for itself as I melt into the page.
I breathe fine now.