Imagine you are a sculptor, what would you paint?
The first beautiful thing you saw, or would you bring to life the ugliest thoughts that plague your rotting mind?
Sometimes the cruellest of cores make the prettiest of appearances; we see it, but don’t really see it.
The mind works in fascinating ways.
I imagined I was a sculptor. I got to work. There was a wild fantasy in my head, something so precious, you wouldn’t believe it to be true.
I started with her neck: so soft and pale in the morning light, the ashen grey didn’t do it justice. Chiselling her jaw was all precision, poise and perfection, a true replica.
I took a break to tend to the empty thoughts overbearing my brain.
I got to work soon after, without realising when the day turned to night, when the night turned to morning, and when the mornings became weeks.
For the first time in a long time, I felt again. I felt the blink of my eye against skin, and I felt hunger gnawing at my stomach. I felt the ache pounding in my head, and the numb surface of my feet. But for the first time in a long time, I welcomed these emotions.
I backed away from the art and glanced at it in awe. I was proud of this piece.
Turning it in the direction, facing the mirror, I stood side by side with it.
Just as beautiful as the art was the artist.
Imperfect features that made the overall perfect.
After all, the art reflects the artist.
(Picture credits: Pexels)
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