Eyes open; world on. The darkness
that is sleep had lifted and the beauty of the earth surrounded the artist.
Dust swirled through the beams of light sifting through the high windows,
reminding the artist of minute hummingbirds, buzzing around foliage. The artist
was searching for inspiration.
Mundane sights turned to art. Timeworn
wallpaper rolling down the walls of his apartment transformed into waves
rippling over distant horizons, boats bobbing peacefully in the form of damp
patches. The dirty carpet appeared like a forest floor to the artist; covered
with the rotting debris of a changing season.
Old socks made for the rotting roots of ancient trees peeking out from
under the dirt, a cracked leather belt slithered round mounds of dirty washing
and into to the abyss that was under the unmade bed. The artist manoeuvred his
way through the crumbling archway of an abandoned temple into the grimy tiled
bathroom. The room had a smell faintly reminiscent of stagnant water. Darkness
engulfed him as he staggered to the stained sink, and the artist glimpsed a
cave-side waterfall instead of the small drip of beige water that drizzled out
of the taps, much like the weather outside the dusty port-hole window. The
journey to the his front door was treacherous; the distant thunder of
neighbours arguing overhead shadowed him all the way to his portal to the
outside world. A wave of exhaustion
crashed over the artist, one that could only be experienced after a constant
search for art in the ugly reality of life.
The artist had worn out his
imagination; the inspiration originating from his surroundings came to an end.
He could not clutch at the little beauty left in his life for longer. But the
artist had a realisation: the best type of inspiration comes truly from within.
