Wordcount: The Artist

Artists were different. This was something that she knew as a fact.

She thought she was an artist once, because she had so many ideas, many thoughts, and her imagination never seemed to stop.

She was wrong.

She learned that she was different from even the most different. She was a dreamer. Not an artist. And it changed everything.

An artist could tell the world what they felt, thought or heard, what they experienced or what others have. They absorbed everything they experienced, and made it art. She did that too- but art was never the end result. Sometimes she’d have written some words, but then she’d erase them, as they were not what she wanted to say. Sometimes she’d draw, but it wasn’t what she imagined. Sometimes she’d sing, but then someone would sing something back, immersing her with a sweet melody, and reminding her she’d never be able to hit their notes.

She was a dreamer, because her mind never stopped creating and imagining- and it was limited to just that. She thought things, but had a hard time telling them through any outlet. She was stuck in her own head, reimagining the world to her will, but only telling a few what went on in her mind. They were rare to come across; they had to be open minded. And then they’d take what she made in her mind, and use it in their worlds. She used to get mad, but she’d made peace with it, and her existence.

And then as time passed, the dreamer turned into an adult, slowly but surely. The dreams existed, but the new routine changed her, made her sleepier, to the point where she forgot to dream at all. And on the rare occasions she did get the chance to dream, it was hard. She’d think of something, but then it’d quickly slip away from her mind. It bothered her, and made her feel out of place again.

If she wasn’t an artist, and no longer a dreamer, then what was she?

She knew the answer, but she refused to accept it. Refused to acknowledge that she’d become part of the world she swore she’d never be part of.

Then one day, instead of dreaming, she decided to go out and see what the artists did at night- to see if their unconventional life styles would inspire dreams in hers.

She danced and danced, full of makeup and dressed in black, the sour aftertaste of their liquid inspiration on her lips; it was familiar to her, but strange in so many ways.

She turned and saw an artist, dressed up with a bright red bow tie, and laughed. She laughed and danced, and kissed him all night, till she had to leave, because the artists decided they needed another place to inspire themselves. She left the artist and bid him goodnight, and with a heavy heart, said a silent thanks to him; she’d never hear back, but he’d be etched in her mind forever. A new dream. She was sad, but pleased, and happily joined her group of artists, hoping that wherever they took her, she’d meet more artists, dressed up, maybe in red, maybe with bow ties.

But that didn’t happen. The artists decided in the end, that their witching hour was over, and it was time to go back and sleep. To let their creative minds rest.

The dreamer was happy to dream, but was sad: she wanted to see more of their world, and wondered if they all had so much fun at night while she was dreaming.

She dreamt of nothing that night, and it disappointed her. She left, and went back to her own world, leaving the artists to their day. But she kept the memory of the artist she met the night before with her, replaying the night and dreaming about how wonderful it would be to be one of them: carefree, passionate, wild and courageous.

Then the unthinkable happened: her dream became a reality.

The artist found his way back to her, and filled her day with happiness and smiles. She was a happy dreamer again, but this time, full of hope with their new found friendship, and instead of reimagining the world, she dreamt of them becoming something more.

But then the artist revealed his true form; he was no artist, he was one of them. A conformist. A realist. His world revolved around work and work, and the occasional night where he pretended to be an artist.

The dreamer’s dream was shattered, but she held on to him, making herself believe that he was just like her: someone that stumbled into the wrong world, and had a hard time getting out. But as time past, the artist never remerged. So slowly, the dreamer let her dream fall apart. Slowly, she accepted that he tricked her, and the artist who danced with her, who kissed her, was never really there.

She was sad at first, but then surely enough, she started to dream again. Not of the illusionary artist, but of other things: of art, of passion, of happiness and smiles.

She called herself a dreamer, because she had a hard time expressing her thoughts into reality. But she now knew what it took to make her dream a reality: courage.

No, she wasn’t an artist, and nor did she ever think she’d be. But she now knew that to keep her dreams going, she’d need a bit of courage. She’d never be able to express her crazy thoughts like an artist for the world to see, but she knew how to make them real and her own personal creation.

(Originally posted on my Wattpad)