The Artist

This is all a work in progress.

"Oh, wow."

"Certainly, yes; it's beautiful."

He smiled softly as he heard the comments of the guests. Paintings were on the walls everywhere for those who came to view, but none to be purchased, for these were his children, which meant more to him than his sacred tools with which he had created them; he would not sacrifice them for anything. He had not asked for his life- not that he had not wanted it, for that he could not deny- but he had worked hard to keep his focus on his art and what it meant to him more than pleasing others with his skill. Keeping his mind on the track of pouring his very self into his masterful creations was a struggle that some days took his strength enough it made his pencil too heavy to lift, but it was worth it. He moved around the room, nodding politely when people greeted him and allowing each glowing spectation of his heart's best expressions to lift some of the weight from the precious organ hidden inside his chest.

Just as the clock showed 12 in the morning, the first hour of a new day, those who were still present filed out of the gallery, which was as stiff with its schedule as its workers were with their postures and facial expressions.

He opened his door and stepped inside a few minutes before one, pulled his uncomfortable tie loose from around his softly tan neck and locked his door. Once he was in his room, he freed himself of the constricting, eighteen layer monkey suit of dress pants, a shirt, jacket and tie and found more comfortable clothes with which to cover himself.

For most, rest would have taken over his body the moment he sat down, but the intense activity of his mind pushed it from him. A long sigh forced itself through the small space between his lips before the artist stood and made his way to his spare room, where he pulled out his folding easel, folding table and small duffel bag of paints and his other tools. He had an idea, but even as he set his supplies up for use, he could not see it. All he knew was that something was there. Nearly three hours of frustration filling his brain pulled itself by at a pace slower than a snail with a chill before he managed three light lines made with his pencils. Once they were done, he set his things down with a yawn and went to bed. Exhaustion made it feel as though it punched the top of his brain and the idea seemed to need some time before revealing itself.

Strong beams of sunlight struck the backs of his eyelids with a smirking vengeance, providing a less than happy start to his day. A headache paired with a lack of rest, the pain in his eyes and the usual just-woken crabbiness made him feel morning light was the bane of any day. Knowing that it was much too late to be sleeping and a return to the land of dreaming would be impossible for hours, he breathed an apology to the poor irises that were suddenly subjected to the giant gas ball's fury once he opened his eyes.

Depression began to shroud the young artist as he walked past the easel and saw how little progress he had made the night before. The unusual amount of notice that had been taken to his work for someone of his age was certainly considered a success, yet at any moment the rich could decide that they no longer connected to his expressions of self and he could slip into nothingness once more. All of his hard work to improve his artistic abilities and himself could be worth everything or nothing at the mood of someone with a large check. His eyes moved up and down the mostly white canvas with a feeling of drowning in the self-disappointment that caught his lungs, filled them with fire, and clouded his mind. Before he could try to search for some kind of land his mind might swim to, the life raft of his phone ringing returned his thoughts to the external reality he regularly struggled to reside in.

"Mom," the caller ID on his ash blue flip phone read. Though her call came timing in well for some of his needs, it also signalled the opening up of more. He held back a soft sigh and closed his eyes for just half a second before opening them again, flipping the phone open, and answering the call.

"Hi, mom."

"Hello, dear! How are you, sweetheart? You know, I would have called earlier, but I figured after your late showing last night you might've slept in a little; I know you've been awake for a few hours at this point."

He rolled his eyes, already aware that very few things had changed in his family. They had always expected him to have almost any other kind of job. They felt that listening to one's body's needs, such as sleeping in a little after a night of restlessness, was a lack of discipline. He chose not to correct her.

"The show went well, mom. Thanks for calling up to ask. A lot of people are talking about signing me on for birthday gifts and such."

"Do you mean like... greeting cards?" She tried to keep the horror and dismay from her tone and it was a good thing she never tried to lie.

"No, no. More like... several thousands dollars per commission, plus anything extra they decide to pay if they're happier than they thought they would be."

"Several thou- oh, my baby, you're doing so well!" The woman exclaimed. There was excitement for him in every syllable.

"Dad probably hasn't changed his mind about my talents, has he?" Although his disappointed mother had accepted the career choice that the artist had made, his father felt that artistry was a hobby at best and had little place in existence at all. He had been told that art had to do with many things that he liked in life, such as the nice plates his wife kept in the kitchen or the owl-themed cuckoo clock that he was exceptionally proud of and he would have believed every word of the truth if it was not that it meant he was wrong in a disagreement with his son. As the adult, despite his descendant being more than two decades in age, he would never be wrong.

"No," she responded with a hesitant note in her tone, "but you know he agrees with you. He'll just never say it."

"... never say it." He finished the sentence at the same time as his mother with all the hope that he had no idea had previously been creeping into his heart swiftly dropping onto the floor and dashing amongst the stained tile. "Yeah, I know - look, I have to go get some more work done before a bunch of meetings, but thanks for calling, mom."

"Oh, good lu- I mean, break a leg, I think it is, sweetheart!"

Not even close, but she was trying. "Thanks, mom. Love you."

"Oh, I love you too!" Click.