OOC: I was litsening to
this music while posting.
IF YOU CARE
XP
IC:
Like the reverberated breath of music, the pop of a note struck against the dulcimer, echoing in a light carousel of noise about the air; her paint brush moved, furious and fast. First to water, then to paint, then to canvas as waters dribbled together in undefined unity, streaking this way and that as blue took to paint the air, and yellows ribboned together as sunlight in the skies and greens flourished, breathing, growing, churning into vivid interpretations of life. Then dancing, bouncing, strings and lights and colors drifted off the brush and moved, lapping, slipping, groping at the air, popping into an unknown dance, an unseen jig as life was breathed and life would come, animating the pieces of canvas to life, as figures, images, mere blurs and specks of figure would dance off the page, peel itself off the fabric of the canvas and dance around in the air, ina swirl, in a blur around her; all of it in a display a surreal rainbow of paint, water and light.
And then with a flick of her eyes, to the canvas they went, the colors would flood and splat, and river and collect onto the canvas again, making a unique style, a unique taste and interpretation of how she felt, the inner most workings of her minds of doubts, missing love, pain and fears. And it would always turn out to be empty; the painting always 'half full' of longing, a lonely feeling with only the fading sound of the song that once burned inside her heart to paint it. But it was the heart that was always missing, and no lyrics to these painted songs. And so, as it was with almost every piece she made, never to be finished, always seeming empty, alone; she stood back, paint brush dripping in her hand, while the daylight spilled into the room to where the now calmed canvas rested on it's stand. Though it was impressionistic, not holding all of the vibrant and realistic details that a painting could, it held enough emotion to display a hunger unseen, a desire unknown, and the ideals of unfullfilment.
And just like everyother painting, her magic would fade away, and the light in her eyes sparkling once from the passion of colors, to the passion of something more distilled.
And then she heard the knocking at the door and nearly jumped out of her skin and whirled around, skirts barely settling against her legs like a gasp of breath, as she stared in surprise to see her husband. She backed up meekly against her new painting, her body half hiding the canvas from view as she peered at him, her blonde hair, a slight mess in her face, curling lightly at her chin so that it's curls peeked at the corners of her lips, and a streak of green paint was smudged across her cheek, and her dress splattered with multiple colors, especially up the sleeves, on her arms and layering her fingers in cakes of drying colors.
She pressed her lips together, flattening her lips and fluttering her long, pale lashes before forcing a smile and nodding her head.
"Yes, news from Summervale?" she questioned softly, repeating his question and raising her brows and taking only but a single step away cautiously from her canvas before pausing a moment to tuck back some of her hair, streaking it with some of the remnants of colors still embedded into her finger nails. She was a timid thing, and looked at her husband so, almost as meek as a mouse. "Did the messenger disrupt your work?"s he asked, with some concern. She knew he didn't like to be disturbed. He never did.