Free Write

Minor chords dominate the music that is playing in the room displaying the painting of a man who is not old as much in age as he is in spirit. When you looked in his eyes yesterday there was a tired soul, visible just beneath the surface of the paint. His eyes call out to you but you turn away, they are pure exhaustion. If he could speak, he would have begged you to cover his eyes for him-- he hasn't slept in years. He has been chopping wood for as many years as the painting is old. He has not blinked once in all that time. He can't, he's just made of paint. He has been standing bent over for all those years, tired, tense, teased by a painting of a sleeping child across the hall, who looks so tranquil and free. The man aches intensely and groans under the weight of the frame and canvas. He is taunted by the night watchman who turns off the lights each night. The darkness only makes it worse, for he feels alone, there is no one who shares his secret pain. His face is gaunt and thin. He hasn't eaten since his artist cruelly painted him in this position, without even a lunch. He lives in a world of dusk, never dawn; a world where he must always labor, never rest; in solitude, never in the company of family or friends, or even a dog. He lives with his tools in his hands, for he will never be allowed to set them on the ground to sit on a stump or relax. His hands are bleeding from splintered wood, and the sweat from his arms stings deep in his tissue. He hears the soft music, and wishes it could soothe him. He sees the sleeping boy and wishes that he could trade him frames, just for a night. What must it be like to be comfortable like all the other paintings in the museum? To lie flat and feel safe from the elements, in a cozy room with a fireplace and a maid? A dog curled up on the mat by his bedside, snoring lightly to provide a serene background noise to help him fall asleep. What must it be like to close his eyes and see nothing but his dreams. But even sweet dreams can't erase the pain and bitterness that he feels every day, over and over, wanting to rest, wanting to sit and eat, wanting to be loved. He has never known love. Even the visitors to the museum turn away, he is grotesque and unattractive. He looks so weathered and beaten. His whole life he has been beaten down by hard labor and by nature, the labor and nature that his creator gave him. When you look in his eyes today you can't see a soul. Life has finally demanded too much.