Zane dipped his brush in the black paint. On the paper he drew an eye. With three simple sweeps of his brush a beautiful tilty eye was born, Cleopatra kohl lined, shiny black pupil glimmering back at his from the surface of the wet paint. He stared at the eye so hard his own eyes began to water. When the eye was dry he rinsed his brush and dipped it in the white paint and with the tip he put a tiny dot on the pupil of the eye. The eye stared back at him. Hard. It looked at how different it was from the eyes of its creator. For that was all the eye could see. A pair of big round blue eyes, framed by dark lashes. Full of tears. And the eye began to cry. But the tears were tinted black. And to anyone looking at the eye it would appear as if the paint had dripped down the page. But paint cries too.
Zane dipped his brush in the black paint. On the paper he drew a nose. With one simple sweep of his brush he sculpted a strong beautifully crooked nose, a nose of the ancient Mayans who believe beauty was in strong crookedness. He watched as the nostrils began to rise and fall, struggling to breathe. And Zane put his own nose to the paper and breathed life into the nose he had created. And all of a sudden the eyes could see and the nose could smell. The nose could smell Zane, a chocolaty pipe smell. It could smell Zane's salty loneliness mixed in. And the nose could smell Zane's deep bitter sadness curled up tight in a ball at the bottom of his stomach. And Zane watered down the tip of the brush and drew shadows around the nose to make it look as if it had sprung and grown from the paper. And the nose could smell more. The nose could smell the blood on one of Zane's wrists, the salty metallic blood crusted on his wrist. And the eyes cried more dark tears.
Zane dipped his brush in the black paint. On the paper he drew an ear. A pointy ear. An elf ear that can hear all. A pointy delicate beautiful elf ear he painted with a few sharp strokes of his brush. And the ear heard Zane's quiet sobs. And the nose smelled his sadness and the many tears falling from his eyes. And the eye saw the pain on his face and in his heart. And the eye and the nose and the ear all felt Zane's sadness and sobbed with him. The ear heard Zane's desperate words, his confusion, his loneliness. And Zane shaded in careful folds of the ear as he sobbed.
And this being, this beautiful being of paint. Pure emotion on paper cried and cried. It cried for its creator's sadness. For it could see and smell and hear inside of Zane. And as the eye cried the paper began to melt. And the ear could barely hear Zane's sobs, and the nose could barely smell his sadness, as the eye could barely make out his face. And the being cried for the absence of a mouth. For had the being a mouth then words could fall from its lips, words of pure wisdom and truth that only a painted being can say. The being knew that words could help Zane. So the being decided to tell Zane its wisdom without the words. It cried with him together until together their tears had destroyed it and what was left to lie was only a sheet of melted paint-soaked paper. And Zane looked at what his beautiful creation had become. And he remembered the beauty he had created out of nothing.
And Zane now knows that even though sadness lives inside of him he has the power of an artist to create beauty and wisdom. And that is something he will always have.
So Zane paints. He paints a million eyes and ears and noses and mouths and lovers and stars and trees and knives and hearts. He paints beauty and wisdom. And his paintings give beauty and wisdom back to their creator.
So sadness is slowly pushed away. By beauty and wisdom and paint. And Zane's tears.