Ahndrian Archives

I have been like a fly on the wall of a nonexistent hall, watching the world and all of its creations unfold.

I have sat in silence, waiting for my chance to have the same gift that everything else has received.

Life.

Gods have abandoned their masterpieces, creatures have all fell victim to the cruel circle of life, and humans.

Oh humans, they have all gave up the one gift they all claim to be so proud of utilizing.

Freewill.

They repeat stories that have already been told, create art that was inspired from something they’ve seen, and all while claiming to be original minds.

For a time, a small time, there were few that could unlock the potential they all have inside.

A time where their freewill was used to its full capability. A time when magic existed.

That time however, it grows more distant with every thought.

Yet here I am, an unthought-of entity, spending eternity in solitude.

Waiting.

I just need to be imagined.

I have so much to offer the world.

Think of me and I will gift you everything you ask.

This is so frustrating; I thought as I walked away from another painting that would forever remain unsold. Creating art used to come so easy to me. Now, I’m not so sure that I’m on the right path. Maybe I should just go get a day job; another pessimistic thought entered my mind as I walked down the empty hallway of the massive house I could no longer afford.

The sun had started to rise at this point, welcoming a new day for everyone that was blessed enough to see it. And here I was, cursing its brightness that illuminated just how dull my life was. I mindlessly rubbed my eyes, being careful not to bump into the dining room table as I tried to adjust my vision against the blinding light that bounced off of my plain white walls.

I suppose someone would expect to see paintings or sculptures protruding from an artist’s walls, but I needed the blankness to concentrate. There was simply something about surrounding myself with empty canvasses of possibilities that helped thrust my mind into a creative mode. Or at least, it used to.

Unfortunately, it has been months since I’ve managed to sell a painting, which has indeed done a number on my creative process. I had convinced myself that collectors had long moved on to new and better works of art, created by people who can actually keep up with the everchanging demand that is art. Myself, I was stuck on creating things I always had. Comfort painting, if you will.

I continued through the glowing maze that is my home consumed deep in unhealthy thought, gliding myself towards the only thing that could bring me some clarity. Coffee.

I reached for my favorite mug; it was one that I had made when I was just a kid. With terrible penmanship, I had written my name with a hefty layer of red paint that dripped, causing ‘CASTER’ to look like it had been painted with blood. Nonetheless, it was amusing to me, but my favorite part was the detailed crane I had mastered beside it. At twelve, it was a proud moment where I had created my official signature.

That crane, it was only a simple line art style, but it was marvelous. My handwriting never did improve over the years, but the Crane was perfect as is. Caster Crane: I thought, pouring the dark liquid to the rim, that name was supposed to mean something. 

I gawked at the contents I’d managed to pour a little too close to the rim. It looked unappealing; the coffee was thick with tiny flecks of grounds that slowly disappeared down into the abyss. But what could I expect from last night’s brew? Surely a little zap from the microwave will make it consumable again, my inner mind teased. I carefully slid my creative juice inside before slamming my index finger against the minute button with more force than I intended. Screw it, what’s another mess going to hurt?

I stared blankly at the microwave, watching the seconds count down, wishing that I could distract myself enough to drown out the negative thoughts that only grew with each day. Even if I could produce another masterpiece, would it truly matter?

These days, the majority of people are more interested in collecting wall art that some guy created by blowing shit out of his ass - literally. Or they’d all rather fill their homes with copy-paste pieces that are mass-produced. I very much doubted that there were still people who care about the raw thought process that goes into creating something original. And I had an army of unsold pieces to back up that theory.