Short Story: Painting Beyond the Sun

What would it paint today if my mind had a brush?

It would paint a woman. A woman with a smile. Tired but happy. She likes being on the go. She is thin and pretty, the smart clothes she is wearing looks as if they are tailored just for her and not like a child wearing her mother’s clothes.

She has just come home from work, carelessly threw her keys on the kitchen counter and put the kettle on.

It’s an open kitchen looking at a simple living area, covered in books. A whole wall made up of bookcases. Some names on the books are familiar to all and some familiar to her that she proudly presents them for all to see.

It’s a detailed picture, you don’t need to see her move to know what happens next. She is about to walk up the stairs, fill the bathtub, strip out of her clothes. Relax there for some time, watch the bubbles float around the water. It would remind her of the countless bubble blowing toys she made her mum buy when she was little. She would remember the joy she had, seeing the flying bubbles reflect the colours of the sun. She wouldn’t yearn for those days but rather remember them as happy yesterdays. It wouldn’t make her long but simply smile and live today.

She would look different without her work clothes and make-up, but her casual clothes look as good, as long as they are combined with that smile of hers. Smile of victory, of achievement, of ‘I knew I would’. The smile ridden of the long-existing doubts and worry.

She would eye the laptop and notes on her desk while answering her ringing phone. It would be her agent asking about the book she is working on. She would say she is nearly done while knowing well that she still has a lot to do.

But not today, it was a long day at work. She would go back to that kettle to make herself a tea but then decide on some coffee. She has always been a coffee person. She would choose to have her coffee decaff, she knows she can’t sleep otherwise. Her favourite part of the day at her favourite spot of the place. Her place. The door she entered from not long ago, faces a large window with a window seat. She would curl next to the window with a book. It could be written by one of her friends, she would smile softly as the proud mum like feeling settles inside her. She would search for a part of them in every sentence, no matter how abstract the text would be. The heat from the mug would warm her, while the rain washes the city outside her window.

Her flat is hers and only hers, but she never feels lonely. As long as her heart is filled with love, being alone wouldn’t mean being lonely but quality time with her very best friend, herself. They’ve been through a lot, they’ve had a lot of fights, but they have learned to love each other more than anyone. Now, they can love others more, too and they don’t fear the life outside their door that doesn’t impose them any danger.

Maybe my mind doesn’t need a brush.

No painting could show this much, and it would still be only my brain who would understand the warmth the picture would radiate.

My mind needs a host to turn this day to reality. Not every day will be a piece from this painting but a life in which each day will carry the potential to be that day.

But this host is only standing by the coast, feet buried under the sand, thinking painting is not bound to any but freed by imagination. She can only see a line, a boundary hiding what is behind. I need to remind myself that the border could just be an illusionary line, and there is something resting behind. I keep getting stuck between what had been and what could be. There has to be something. Something where the sun sets.

©  photo from Unsplash

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