The canvas spread out in front Calvin like a great pillow descending to smother him. It actually felt as if the air were being pulled from room. It was so quiet, his thoughts could fire uninterrupted. Only the steady drip of water from the tip of his brush onto the table disturbed the torturous silence.
It was rare for him to feel so paralyzed. His actions were based around logical choices, yet he couldn’t even decide which color he should start with. It was torture. A limitless number of options that greedily filled the empty space in his old bedroom. It was strange feeling both rushed and that time had simply stopped moving.
His body must have surrendered his ability to paint along with his memories. He took a deep breath which caused a slight pinch in his chest, and then he dropped the brush back into the cup of water. Why was he spending so much time worrying about this forgotten pastime? It hadn’t even felt like a conscious decision to try and paint on the remaining canvases left in the box. What else could he do when the universe seemed so keen on him rediscovering these things?
Not that he was one to believe the universe was speaking to him, or could speak at all. Yet, he couldn’t argue with the fact that he had chosen to stay here, and this was the only reason he had found so far that could explain his decision. He went to pick up the brush again, but instead, merely rested his hand on the edge of the cup. He pressed down on its edge, wondering if he would be freed if he just tipped it over.
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Instead, he decided to search out the logic that had been so absent when deciding to sit down and paint today. He tried to discern the precise reason why he had chosen to do this, and felt his stomach turn when he instantly thought of Clara. Though it wasn’t as if this would change things between them. Even if he were capable of painting her a breathtaking masterpiece, it wouldn’t change what he had done, back then, or more recently. With age, he began to discover that things were more permanent than they seemed.
Calvin wasn’t sure how long he was lost in the gaping openness of the page, when suddenly, it felt like something had shifted in him. It was surgical. A hypodermic needle that had found pierced his skin, and allowing the pressure in his veins to drain. The fear of what could be, dissolved into an ongoing forgiveness for the various mistakes he was bound to make. This was a chance to explore, instead of a test that he knew he would fail. For the first time in nearly 15 years, Calvin began to paint.