Melancholia

He stared at it. It was never meant to be a fiction, or a distant dream. It now seemed profoundly life like. The flows and the restrains and curvaceous elegance construed the canvas. The vibrancy was definitely restrained, the greys were perfectly skimming through. Something was still missing. He knew it was him. It echoed something in him which was not perceivable at the moment, but it was still him. He felt like watching his past silently drift onto his artwork. Something was quaint and imperfect. He just stared at it and slowly he began to wake up to his dream.
“So, is it that good? “, she said, smiling at him, and tasting her wine
” I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t get you ” the man replied thoroughly startled, and snapping out of his labyrinth of thoughts, to find a rather beautiful woman standing next to him, in a flamboyance defining deep magenta Prada. She was holding on to a wineglass and leaning on to the side wall. Her dark brown hair complimented her brown eyes.
“I said, did you like the painting? “, she said, a bit louder this time.
” Ah, yeah, yes I did like the painting, it is an enticing piece of art” he said shyly. He was never good at spontaneous conversations with strangers, much less exquisitely dressed women.
“Well it is, what exactly did you like about it, If I may, that is “, she said now standing straight and facing the painting with him.
” I don’t know, can’t really pinpoint, but the overall hues and shades are quite crafty and the whole demeanour of the art is thoroughly engaging ” he said affording to smile at her.
” Interesting, You seem to be an art enthusiast, or a painter yourself. Did you notice the shading around the jaw and lips, to give an outward dimensional effect,… ”
” Chiaroscuro… Yes, that’s a unique combination, a technique of high Renaissance blending in with modern art “, he said cutting her. He now understood that She was the painter.

A voice started to shriek in his head. Every nerve was being twisted by an unknown force, which he could never control. He needed to do this. He dragged himself to the canvas again, and turned open the unused pastel colours. He squeezed the colours onto his work-board and starting mixing grey with turquoise to achieve a particular obscuration of bright colours. He rubbed his palms together and held the brush in his left hand.

“Forgive me , but I still can’t get hold of the interpretation of this , the girl crying at the bottom, particularly “, he said pointing and touching the painting ever so slightly. She held his hand which he was retracting back from the painting. She guided his fingers on to the scene where a girl child was sobbing uncontrollably.
” Do you feel her, now “, she said looking into his eyes, smiling shyly.
” I…. Well, I can’t feel her pain from here, though I know, the whole situation is vaguely disconsolate ”
” She is afraid of something that is going to happen to her, though she is surrounded by people she loves and there is a blink of the happiness still existing in the whole story, that she doesn’t want to connect to ”
” But if the plain black strokes represent darkness, the greys show her dreams, now isn’t it contradicting the whole significance of the scene? ”
” Well you know better “, she said and held his hand in hers.

As he rolled out the drapes, the bright sunshine shone upon the colourful canvas. It was nearing its completion. And he had composed what was missing. He had seen what was to be done, and what would happen. Now he needed to just wait for it. He took the painting to the art gallery where it would be displayed that night. The girl who was erstwhile crying had come to realise something more valuable. It was not despair that could bind her to eternity, it was hope that would be portray her into life. She was hope. And he made her smile….

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