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Flame (Prologue)

The oil lamp burned. Its small little flame lit up the entire room and set the walls ablaze in orangish glow. Its flicker sent tiny bursts of yellow into his eyes. What shade of yellow? For this, he could not pay attention to as he would other times. Now, he was busying himself with something of more importance. This light was nothing compared to the natural light of the dawn and early afternoon, yet, would have to do for now. He could not sleep anyway and suffered anxiously through insomnia. Tomorrow was Sunday, and he would fixate himself on this yet again for that day and the days to come. He could not find rest, and he was sure that rest was not worrying itself by looking for him neither. He was too far lost from rest to ever be found. Of course, he would not complain. The morning sun would greet him as it always did; always looking as if it had been chasing rest just the same.
He shifted on his stool. The night had brought the chills along with its darkness, yet he did not seem to notice. His hand reached forward to touch the rough wooden end of the brush. It wrapped around the wood and picked it up, dipping it into a miniscule puddle of royal blue. He sighed. The brush made its way over to the rough texture of his canvas and slowly filled a hole of endless white space. He always thought of painting like that: filling an infinite hole of white where no one person, or eye, would ever be lost. The brush kept moving, slowly at first and then back and forth to cover the piece of the infinite. His thoughts never moved and were always at a stand still when he painted, until this night. This night, something was different. This night, something moved against him like a water current turning in the opposite direction. This night, he chose to go with this direction, instead of the way he went before. Color after color, shade after shade, he filled spaces, one after another. He did not stop to admire, critique or fix. Instead, he made a thousand tiny mistakes and did not try to hide them. He did not once stop to stand and move to the back of the room to see if it worked, and he did not put the brush down in order to get himself a drink of water. He painted, he filled, and brushed away the infinite spaces of his life, one after the next. For once, the mistakes were alright again and even looked like they came together. At least for him, this was so. He painted on till the morning light feasted its eyes upon the windowsill. It was then that he put the paintbrush down, blew out what was left of the lamp, and took the canvas down from the easel. He stretched another three canvases, prepared all three, and blinked into the sun. According to what he believed, it was six thirty, and today he would share his mistakes. And he would fill the infinite spaces of his life; one canvas at a time.




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