After Fifteen Paintings

He is not at ease until and unless he is working.

Seeing the stroke of his brush giving a touch of life to an empty canvas, or feeling the coolness of clay as he works the material into a desired shape, even tinkling with tiny stones give him a small reprieve from the chaos of his mind.

Being prolific over time came as naturally to him as breathing.

So as Weiss Guertena looks back on his work, he makes a rather startling yet unsurprising realisation.

Each piece came from either an unforgettable memory, or thought process or desire of his. And from there, he could track each minute and subtle change in his perception, his precarious state of mind.

He walks behind each glass window in this new home of his, a shadow in the pitch-black darkness, observing and amusing himself over little discoveries he makes of his works.

His style changes slightly during a particular period in time, but after fifteen paintings, it changes abruptly.

He frowned and rubbed his chin.

He notices the variation in style over and over again.

These colours are brighter, happier on the scenic landscapes and peaceful compositions. Ah, he had just gotten married here. His career was steady, he had a good network supporting his work.

These works are noticeably darker, more disturbing. He remembered being plagued with doubts at the time. When the world turned away from him for something newer, flashier. He was not one to follow trends, and carried on with his own style.

These are when he was furious with the state of the world. Injustice and corruption and deception following him wherever he went. Why did the innocent suffer while the oppressors remain unpunished?

The softer paintings are a reminder of happier times. His wife had just given birth, and his son had the fuzziest blond hair he had ever seen, like a little duckling. And when he fed him, he opened his mouth like a little bird starving for food.

He laughed when Mary suddenly stood in front of the window and blocked his view. Little brat.

But she, as the culmination of his work and spirit, was exactly how he envisioned her. Too curious for her own good, full of life and too much love to give out.

Even after thousands of paintings, sculptures and other experiments, she was still his favourite. Fuzzy blond hair like his son, eyes the colours of the stars and seas and night sky and the slightest hint of a mischievous grin when he first painted her delicate features.

A grin that now gave way to a frown as she placed a small hand on the cool glass of the window, a crease forming between her brows. If he could frown back and mirror her, he would. He longed to place his own hand against hers, connect to the shadow of a person with more life than most people could live.

What's wrong, brat?

"Is someone… there?"

She suddenly jumped back, as if spooked and raced away. His vision once again clear, he saw the rest of his works rather restless too. Variations of different emotions expressing themselves in their own ways. It finally dawned on him and he stepped back, giving himself and the window a wide berth.

So that's how it is.

He is not at ease until and unless he is working. Even here in what he assumes to be his purgatory, he sets off to find materials, wondering what kind of variation in style will come next.

AN: I'm very rusty. A couple of reviews on my other stories made me ride the nostalgia train and there's no getting off lol