The White Flower 🌼

He stood looking at the blank canvas in frustration.
It was the third week now and no inspiration, no creative outburst, not even a thought strong enough for a clear stroke.
He decided angrily to give it a rest and go get some food.
He opened the scanty cabinet, noting his last can of oats.
He looked at it with disdain, he wasn't in the mood for oats yet as he was about closing the cabinet, his stomach grumbled.
"Guess when you're broke you can't afford to be picky." He mumbled out to himself before picking the half full can.

While boiling water for the oats in the kitchen, he saw his reflection in the silver back of a pan.
His eyes teared at the sorry states he was in; Messy Hair, stained white singlet and frayed shorts.
His eyes had bags that were big and bold enough that they looked as though they were used to hold groceries.
Despite him not having enough to go grocery shopping for quite some time.
He opened the fridge to get some milk. Managing to get the frivolity of power and a carton of milk due to the kindness of his landowner who owns a farm.
She was a particular fan of his art, an art that he had now forgotten how to make.
He could draw - yes he could draw.
But it wasn't art, it had no soul, no emotion.
It was nothing different than your random squares and circles used in geometry.

He looked at his previous works while eating his hot bowl of oats.
Skimming through the long list of paintings, sculptures and drawings, trying to figure out what had changed.
How was the artist Pedro of then different from the Pedro of now.
On the filled table he looked at the pile of bills awaiting to be looked at too.
Water, food, taxes he found it rather criminal that an artist had to pay tax even when he had no money.
The bills of living in the house were even more pressing. Despite not having to worry about rent and milk, he still had to put in some effort.
He wasn't in a charity home.. at least not yet.
After looking through the bills, he came to the same conclusion he had when he looked at them yesterday, and the day before. It was hopeless.

"Should I just end it all?" He asked himself. Thinking that in a rather twisted way that was still artistic.
He could die a colorful death that would make the news, the last flare of an artist.

Fade into Black

He sat imagining the newspaper headline of his suicide, depression at his peak.
He stood up, sad but at least ready to start his final piece.
Yet something held him back. He looked at his work table and saw his box of crayons.
The box left open with some crayons littered about, the same state most of his other art tools were.
"One final try wouldn't hurt." He said to himself, gathering the box of crayons.

It was going to be a simple drawing. He started slowly, first taking two colours, simply drawing according to how he felt. Letting loose, he continued on, losing control and allowing his instincts to take over.
It seemed as though his resignation from life and its troubles had opened his heart to creativity.
This was the first artwork in months that wasn't forced, it was simply embraced.
In no time at all he had finished.
It was a lovely portrait of flowers growing in a murky swamp, that's just what he was, a new burst of life in this down murky life he was living.
He imagined the headlines again now as he looked at his new work.
Instead of fading into black he had burst out with new life.

The White Flower

Sounds much better.


  • The YouTube Video isn't mine and although it serves as a header image in this post, it is used for enlightenment purposes only.

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