Is the cognac over? The empty tumbler rolling down the dusty study table concurs with that fact. Your curtains are drawn, leaving no path for the light to penetrate into your room that’s devoid of any light at all. Why did you paint your walls black? Another one of your episodes? It’s difficult to make out your face in the sheer darkness you have surrounded yourself with, but that remains an everyday issue. The only source of light at the moment is the open door that slightly moves with the blowing wind, creating a creaking sound. The empty tumbler fell against the floor, it broke. Like many of your dreams. The stench of alcohol and paint permeates the air in the enclosed area. There are books strewn about everywhere. Some lay untouched on your dusty study table, equally covered in the ghastly particles, and some lay on the chair before it, creating a tower. The topmost book remains open, a note of sorts is visibly kept in between the open page.
I suppose you are lying on the bed because I can sense a figure on the right side. Don’t you have any notion of time? Always lying in bed when the days don’t go as per your wishes. With every step I take around your room, the old and worn out wooden floor creaks. I often find myself fearing for my life, one wrong move and I might just break a few bones. Like your broken liquor bottle. I spoke to your brother, I often do when I am unable to reach you. These days, my letters don’t seem to reach you at all. I pick up the fallen towel from the floor and begin to fold it, it’s as old as this house. As old as your fantasies. I take a stroll in the room in search of a candle and a matchstick that might be here and there because of your nasty habit to smoke. You always say that candles give you the opportunity to dabble into your creative side, too much light is never too good for an artist. An artist’s best friend is the darkness.
I find the candle and the matchstick in the cupboard of your old, dust laden study table drawer, the drawer that has come off its hinges because I pulled it a little too firmly. I put the candle on the candleholder, the colour of which had worn out ages ago, and now it stands rusted, just like your desire to find a meaningful purpose in life. I light up the matchstick, the warmth heating up my face for mere moments as light the candle, and the flame comes alive. I walk towards your bed, slowly, the floorboard still creaking. I rest the candleholder on the nightstand besides your table. The ashtray overflowing with bud out cigarettes comes under my site. I move to look at your face. You lay there, your lashes touching your pink cheeks that are flushed. Your lips appear dry, perhaps the drinks resulted in that ordeal. You lay in your white shirt that has ink and paint splotches smeared in certain places.
I shake you slightly, to wake you up. I tap your cheeks softly to wake you up, but my touch is met with coldness. My movements hasten, the nature of my touch more frantic, harsher. But you don’t wake up. You never do. And as you said, an artist’s best friend is darkness.
Cognac and Darkness