This is what happens when I have writer’s block at 2:30 AM and Daily Post asks: “If you could paint your current mood on a canvas, what would that painting look like? What would it depict?” (Check out that prompt here: Daily Post, Frame of Mind )
The Colours of the Box That Waits Below
Let me tell you the story of a painting,
That which depicted a little automaton branded with the name: Creativity.
This is the story, of the day Creativity died.
I know that no one picture ever stays the same,
Especially this one, which… changes.
There is a box, a box from which my creativity seems to have been pulled,
Dragged by gray chains of fatigue,
Spiraling down, being pulled without mercy.
There is a thin blue man of empty eyes, gripping a cliff side,
His fingers turning white.
Until his soulless eyes fluttered and his soundless breath gasped.
Colour his empty eyes perhaps a dark blue,
And watch as he falls into a box-
Tumbling towards it through endless space of black.
Not a lighting star to be had,
But he is blinded by the golden spotlight beneath him.
The frail automaton of creativity,
So graceful, yet stiff,
Akin to flying, but never leaving the ground.
And confusion… here the confusion has been randomly purple paint splattered against the blackness.
Striking out, lashing out, Creativity cannot escape.
Claws outstretched reach for him,
The bloody red slash marks, carved like scribbles
Across the fine work of former thought, left for dead in the void.
These scribbles, they absorb the air;
First few and far between, but nearing the end, they multiply…
And free fall with him.
They free fall with him,
Before they gather below him at the end,
Altogether an army,
Gathered within the blue box.
They wait not to cushion his fall,
But to embrace him with the most sadistic of hugs.
Crushed inside the box which now folds in upon itself,
Creativity holds himself fetal,
Unable to move anymore
Whilst the bloody red scribbles pile in around him.
A fiery orange ring bursts forth from around him,
Enveloping the box, smothering him-
All the while the scribbles…
Chattering and chanting tormentuous things,
We are the wall.
Far off in the distant tunnel’s end,
Words painted an envious green
Dance and play, mocking him as he longingly
Words like maybe, someday, product, end, final, and conclusion.
All around him in the box,
The scribbles begin to coil around him,
Restraining his flailing fits and raging fists,
So they might constrict around his throat.
And as the cruel choking gets tighter and tighter,
Creativity’s skin grays along with everything around him.
And as the necktie, colourless and bland
Descended from the sky, he knew his execution had come.
This was his final hour as the hastily drawn art had painted him.
He couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe,
Long ago, did he give up change…
Although somewhere up above,
His puppet master was still naïvely hopeful.
With his final moment however, as he died,
Creativity cried “Deus ex Machina!”
And it rang into the night.
He could not get out.
He could not get out.
Creativity died that day, Creativity died.
We all know that no one picture will ever stay the same.
The picture changes damn it,
The picture changes.