Lair of the Unsuccessful Artist

The door slams shut with a think clang shaking the two-roomed apartment with a bang. Vividly painted walls are still dripping in fierce red. The red is the artist’s blood, the color of the fire truck he had first drawn, and the color seen in bottles of pigments upon the shelves hung on the wall. Light shines through one big window, still creeping through even as the curtains patiently wait to strike where the window meets the wall. A leather couch is pushed against a corner; it’s surface faded from years of use. It’s still unaccustomed to such as young man’s dreams as he lays there every night in slumber.
Across the room there are two doors: one painted an orange mural of a sunrise while the other is paint with the sight of a blossomed red tulip. Perhaps one leads to the cramped bathroom with the rusted shower—a shelter for homeless cockroaches. The other may lead out of the cramped apartment to burst upon the sweet afternoon sunshine of the streets of lower Manhattan. One more door exists almost hiding behind a wall filled with unfinished paintings. Unlike the room this door still remains strangely empty only filed with faint scrawls of a pencil. It screams “Why has the artist given up? Will he continue? Believe in him. He is alone.”
Behind the door is a cramped kitchen. Two walls painted a grassy green; Two walls painted a deep blue. Old cabinets hang a contract to the freshly painted room. They remain barely filled except for a few microwavable means. One hangs crooked, but the colors of the room seem to try to hide it. The rust in this sink is illumined by a bright light through the window on the other side of the kitchen.
Underneath the window the floor is littered with paintbrushes and paint pallets. Piles of brown, blue, and crimson are heaped on the floor. In the middle of the fray a paint splattered stool and easel sit. Upon the easel sits a nearly blank canvas, except for one crisp penciled question mark. Silence sits comfortably mixing with the smell of fresh paint and the hidden layer of filth underneath.
The door slams again as the young man enters briskly walking towards the easel. Grasping a few paintbrushes he gracefully dips them into liquid pools of color. With almost desperate strokes he works on the painting. It’s obvious that he’s close to giving up hope. Yet, after hours tick away the painting transforms into a canvas of magic. The question mark is erased by a picture of beauty that surely is real. In this painting, strokes of hope are mixed with dots of fear and splashed of loneness breathing the story of the unsuccessful artist who’s ready to face the world again.