Excerpt: City of Glass

Art.

The previous night, it had been as though I were opening my soul onto a piece of paper. And I had, intuitively, stored more colorful flowers in my room, perhaps with the subconscious desire to use them in a painting. I knew it was illegal; I knew I had promised myself that it had been a onetime only affair.

But I couldn’t stop the wave, the rush that came over me. The need to create, to vent emotions onto something that couldn’t reply, but, at the same time, could speak.

I needed Art. It was absolutely necessary to my sane existence.

I did not appreciate that the first stroke of my pen, of my makeshift flower paintbrush, had been a defining moment. That I had altered my very perception of myself, of my reality; that things would never be the same.

So I shall state again: I did not intend to create another Artwork. In fact, I intended to burn the other one the next morning, the wish I had intended to satisfy with it already fulfilled by the veracity of having my sister back.

Of course, life never really follows one’s plans.

I did not realize what I was doing until my pen was millimeters away from the paper, black ink dripping onto it. I hadn’t even taken note of my sitting down at the desk, picking up the utensil, and with the intention of creating something fantastic.

I strived to restrain myself – truly, I did – but my will was no match for pure insensible desire, for an addiction.

Finally, I gave in: if I struggled, I would only lose. This time, however, instead of deciding beforehand what I would paint, I allowed my imagination to soar, and whatever yearning was on my mind was put on the paper, my thoughts splattered before me in black ink.