To be an Artist

Once upon a time there was an artist, an artist that couldn't have children.


1. An Artist's Imagination

Her eyes were a mixture of pink light and an earthy tone, brought out by her complexion that of a faded cappuccino brown, a bulbous tipped nose, small plump brown lips, a heart shaped face with a widows peak, where starting there all the way to the back sprouted an organized catastrophe of black curls pouring from her scalp, cascading down her shoulders ending behind her back stopping inches before her tush.

She would be a bright girl, wise beyond her years, and she would be beautiful, generous but not naive. She would be able to peer into the eyes of others and know that deep in their hearts whether they lied, or meant any harm not due to some special power but because she had a better understanding of the soul. And so she would know that she would always be right. Always.

The girl would love dark colors but love innocent things, she would love the outdoors, staring out at the sky, being one with nature; praying; gardening, cooking, just existing... as if she was human. As if she was alive.

The artist stops as if interrupted. He leans back in his chair to stare at the paintings and sketches filled with the girl, dancing in a field of flowers, gathering daisies into her basket, sitting in a field of dandelions while gazing up at the sky as the winds blew them away along with her wishes; paintings of the girl in a kitchen cooking: chopping onions, her eyes filled to the brim of water and her nose overflowing with mucus, retrieving a vegetarian quiche from the oven, washing the dishes, trying to reach a high shelf in the living room, playing chess against herself alone in a house filled with no one. Just if she was human. 

The artist decided that it would be enough for the day,  he didn't think his heart would be able to take anymore. Yet he sat there, although his pencil unmoving he still continued to think to himself.

She would hate roses, because they reminded them of herself, beautiful yet alone- 

And she hated Tulips because she couldn't understand why that in the language of flowers it symbolized "perfect love" when roses- which were far more beautiful was simply translated into symbolizing "romantic love". 

And so she would come to prefer zinnias, chrysanthemums, peonies, holly flowers but most of all Daffodils.

And her name would be Zophelia.

Zophelia. Zophelia. The artist mumbled the girl's name even as he went to sleep and dreamed of a world where they would exist together as his friend; as his daughter; as a family. Even though he knew that could not be so for he could not have children, he had been cursed by a witch out of envy, for she had loved him and instead of confessing her love cursed him out of cowardice, locked him away in the dark mountains so that no woman could ever lay her eyes on him, where only she would visit occasionally.

He was a rare being, rich brown skin, pale pink eyes and long white dreadlocks, he was slim and swift in gait. The witch loved him so much that when he suddenly fell ill one day she moved in with the intentions to nurse him back to health, and out of fear that her curse was the cause she even removed her spell.

But alas her efforts were not enough to save his life.

The artist died.

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