In the canvas

You do not know me. I am invisible to those who don’t know my name. It’s a conscious thing; I don’t give my name out freely. I prefer being hidden. It makes it easier to watch and learn. 

I noticed one day, that somewhere in the great vastness of the cyber world, that a great deal of people were drawn to a mysterious man named The Tutor. 

Heh, I said drawn. 

I noticed, as is my wont, that he was teaching these people, these willing students, a new philosophy. A way to paint. To become oneself through creativity. I watched, and my fingers itched to join in. 

But, you see I have to confess, I have no fingers. I am simply me. I can’t paint, I have no canvas. I have no brush, no paint, no extension of myself. I am barely here, never mind there, in that sweet classroom built for two bodies, a cockroach, and a world of souls, each enlarged and enriched by The Tutor’s gift of himself. I simply watch. 

But in my mind – I have recently discovered I have a mind, therein lies the tools at my disposal! I envision what I must look like, all hair and toenails, a sizable expanse of flesh and the bones to support it. I imagine my eyes are green. I see me, myself, picking up a pencil, and slowly twirling it around fingers – I have fingers now. I see me, myself, becoming accustomed to the shape, the weight, the form, and decide to have another. And another. I lay out these new tools and look up with my green eyes. An easel and canvas are to my right. I blink and see The Tutor’s grin in the split second’s darkness. There is a scalpel beside those pencils. I do I watched others learn. I prepare my tools. 

First, there is nothing. A white square, like the last piece of unspoiled snow. I have watched in other times as those who come across the virgin territory quickly defile the snow. There is always regret after. But I will not regret this now. I lift my arms, and splay my fingers – remember I have fingers now. I prepare me, myself. 

I see it now. Within the confines of my canvas, there is a chandelier, broken and on one side. It was once a majestic icon, gold and crystals glimmering like tiny rainbows. You can see the last piece of honour and pride this once great chandelier held, keeping all but a few of her crystals. The few are strewn on the floor. There is a mutinous crack looming overhead, an evil dark grin that could only mean the ceiling spat out its regal charge out of spite, a burden it no longer wanted to support. There is dust snowing down, so light you wouldn’t notice until it settles in the grand arms of the chandelier. Her beauty is fast fading under the dirty snow. In her wisdom, the chandelier accepts the dust in without fear and waits. There is very little that dazzles now. One crystal remains untouched, and it tries desperately to shine. But there is no more light in this room.    

There is only a broken thing, and in the corner, almost hidden by her chandelier, there is a girl, whose name you don’t know, forever kept in the safety of canvas. Waiting for the next lesson. 

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