A Broken Watch

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
Something I haven't worked on in a while nor shared with others.

Submitted: November 07, 2019

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Submitted: November 07, 2019

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An artist stood in front of a canvas, a canvas of infinite capacity. A white that stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction. There were no limitations or restrictions that could curve the capabilities of the artist who stared upon it. He could create whatever his heart desires to create, and his imagination is the only margin to the vast potential that lies ahead, and behind, and above, and below. This was a gift from whatever god or fate would have been so kind as to grant it, and an opportunity unlike anything the artist had ever had before.  He knew this, he was all too aware of prospect of greatness that lay within his grasp.

 

Perhaps this fact makes the artists tragedy even greater. Perhaps if he could not comprehend the potential of the boundless vista around him he would remain content in his ignorance, but alas. His mind, though far from genius, was more than sharp enough realise the horror of his crime, and hate himself for it.

 

What then did the artist do with the limitless sea of white that surrounded him? What mist and murk now clouded the clarity of what had once been clean and pure?  What dark and twisted thoughts did he forge, scar and scold into the matter that engulfed him?

 

The truth is his crime was worse than this. Worse than simply turning the white to black and light to dark. 

 

He did nothing.

 

He stood and he watched as the canvas remained blank. As he stood, seemly paralysed and utterly perplexed, starring out at what was no longer the hope of what could be, but rather a reflection of what he was not. Truly no man with a heart or soul could waste such a thing. 

 

As in leaving no marks on that canvas, it said much more about the emptiness of his being.  Much more so than a man who would carve the canvass and ravage its beauty with rage. Although such things would be wicked, the acts of an undeniably wicked human, they would be human in nature none-the-less.  

 

He was battling with the truth of his inability to create anything, despite nothing stopping him, and every fibre of his being gasping to do so. It seemed to him that this torture was far worse than a hell cast by the hand of an others judgement. For this purgatory it appears, was a self-inflicted one

 


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