Ghost of Mine

I wake up slowly. The thick curtains that were here when I moved in are awesome. I think this used to be a study or something, but I use it as a bedroom just because of the curtains. Only a thin line of sunshine comes in and cascades onto the wooden floor, which is the only way I can tell night from day. They’re drawn all day.

I crawl out of my bed after having dozed off for the second time. I walk towards the kitchen in desperate need of coffee. The one wall and two doorways I meet on my way is proof of that.

I walk into the kitchen and turn on the machine. I’ve had plenty of failed attempts at making coffee in the morning, so I’ve learned to prepare it before I go to bed. You really do learn from your mistakes.

I take two pieces of toast out of the bread box and stuff them in the toaster. The bread box was here too when I moved in. It’s somehow melted or welted into the wall, so it’s obviously been there a long time. I find it useful. While the coffee is brewing and the toast is burning, I walk towards the bathroom down the hall as I seriously consider asking my brother to bring a new toaster on his next visit up here.

While I do my business, I get this weird, creepy feeling. I look over my shoulder, but I only see my own refection in the mirror. I grunt a laugh.

On my way back to the kitchen, I reach down to rub and scratch my balls, but again I get that weird, creepy feeling – as if someone’s watching me and judging me. I turn around, but there’s nothing but an empty hallway. I look up at the ceiling – just to check for judgmental spiders – but again; it’s just a ceiling. In fact; it’s a very cracked ceiling. I should paint it – if I can reach. Maybe I should call in some professionals.

I turn around and walk towards the delicious smell of coffee and burned toast. I pour the coffee into a huge mug and put some butter and jam on the burned toast and bring it all down the hall and to the right – into my studio.

The biggest room in the house became my studio/ living room. It probably used to be some 'entertainment room’ back in the day, but since it wasn’t too big or too small, it was perfect for a studio.

I sit on my small couch and place the plate on the coffee table. I lean back and stare up at the wall above the fire place. I sigh.

It’s the perfect place for a huge, beautiful painting – a piece of art – but I just can’t find anything to paint. A landscape would be too dull and cliché, while an abstract piece would just be too modern – too cluttered. I’ve tried to draw a sketch for a portrait, but since I’ve never actually seen who I’m trying to draw, it’s real hard. I just have this image in my head of how the person might look, but I just can’t transfer it onto paper. It’s like, when I try, he disappears from my imagination.

I really wanna draw him. I really want him to hang up there. It would look so perfect.

But I simply can’t capture him.