{artist.}


She had the ability to paint his life grey as much as she could with mystical hues of indigo, fuchsia and gold.

He vowed to ensure the colours never ran out.

Occasionally he wasn’t as careful and they dried up before he could replenish them so she would have to mix whatever she had left on the palette, painting his life a dull shade at those times.

He started caring less about his task as each season passed however, and after a few years, once every colour had been marvelled at,  he stopped keeping watch altogether, leaving her not even a remnant speck to dot her exit with.

 

5 thoughts on “{artist.}”

  1. The desperation and hopelessness of letting one know how much you care, despite facing what may seem like apathy… Truly, it does bring about such misery in ways that one wouldn’t imagine could be so simple as negligence.

    I really love how you started out that first line, and I was gripped to the end. This is probably one of the best pieces that you’ve done in a while.

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  2. Oh no! I never saw that you had left a comment here! My apologies for the delayed response. Such high praise from you too – as usual, quite undeserved (I’ve simply come back from a mini hiatus). You’ve got it right in that it’s concerning apathy. Apathy is such a one-way, self-centred beast in any relationship, be it between people, or man and pet or plant even. Someone who doesn’t care won’t even realise if you had painted their life grey. \
    Thank you for your lovely comment!

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    • Hahahah, at this point I’m starting to feel like I’ve been cursed with bad luck (it appears that it happens to me quite a lot). You deserve every bit of praise for this piece, because I can really sense the bleakness of this piece.

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