A/N: I woke up at 4am today and I couldn't go back to sleep. So at 5am I said 'to hell with it', got out of bed and put it in writing. Saw the dawn break and everything ^^.
Note me if you see a mistake
Listening while writing: Ocean - Two Steps From Hell
SUMMARY: An empty piece of paper. A story wanting to be seen.
"Art does not reproduce the visible rather, it makes visible."
- Paul Klee
It starts as an empty sheet of paper among the pile of papers on the desk. The desk is a mess in a way that only the artist is able find an order in it. Something is trapped behind a screen of white surface, something not visible, not known. Whatever it is, it wants to be free, it wants to be seen and understood in a thousand possible ways. But trapped in that paper, it isn't able do a lot to help itself.
So it whispers.
It whispers about itself, about the land unknown, it whispers its story and hopes that some part of it would be heard. The whisper is silent as the summer-night's breeze. Its prison isn't letting it get any louder.
Just a whisper of a gentle breath.
For a long time nothing happens; nothing but empty space and silence answers the whisper. Then from nowhere a pencil comes, staining the clear white paper with grey curvy line that is drawn over it. A line becomes a sketched arm of a nymph – curvy, gentle. A few more lines complete the hand.
A hand is holding a brush. The whispering becomes louder.
A hand with the brush moves, not drawing on paper, but outside of it. Drawing the world in which the pencil was. It draws a line, as real as the paper itself. It draws fingers as the pencil draws a slender neck of the muse.
The fingers that were drawn were holding the pencil, moving it with precision only experience can give. The pencil draws the outline of the face, gentle, womanly, clear as the morning sky.
The brush colours the fingers before continuing to the palm and the wrist of the artist. The pencil answers with few soft strokes that would become long, curly hair.
The art is being made on both sides of the paper screen.
The nymph sits on the edge of the forest lake; the hand becomes the body of the artist.
The whispering comes closer and closer to the surface, until it fills the room completely.
As this battle of creating is fought, a draft messes up the other white paper that was still left untouched. A breeze is seen in the leaves of the forest in which the nymph resides. Hair that is drawn on the artist's head with care ruffles with the moving of air.
A leaf falls from one of the trees as eyes of the artist are drawn. It falls into the pool in front of the nymph. The pool becomes full of ripples. A beauty of each circle travelling outwards is drawn with the passion of a lover.
Ripples don't stop at the edge of the pool, instead they move on, over the whole picture, until they finally stop at the edge of the paper.
Pencil is put down.
Artist stares at the picture of the maiden in the forest. He sees her story through the pool in which she's drawn him. He sees her eyes and they seem to look at each other for a while, the water being the portal between their worlds. He sees a hint of a smile formed on her lips and he smiles as well.
He picks up the paper and with quick professional movements puts in on the wall with the help of a small piece of tape.
He backs up, staring at his newest addition among many.
A forest nymph, a fighting knight, a child with a dragon, a philosopher among the lions, a princess in the castle, a king on his throne, a maiden taming a unicorn, a bard singing with the birds, children climbing a tree, priests praying to their god, a busy market square from ancient Egypt, a wizard calling to the powers of nature, …
Every piece of paper had a world and story of its own.
An artist yawns and scratches his back at the same time. His yawn is disrupted by a tiniest whisper of them all. He turns around and sees a big mess of papers on the floor, washed there by the draft from before.
The whisper is telling a story, and he picks up the paper and puts it on the table. Waiting to be drawn again. He can become real one more time.
"The mystery of whose story it will be, of who draws the curtain. Who is it that chooses our steps in a dance? Who drives us mad, flashes us with whips, crowns us with victory when we survive the impossible? Who is it that tells all these things?"
- Sweet Pea (Sucker Punch)
Review, I like to know what you're thinking!