I felt like doing some recreational writing. An angsty fanfic is the result of this urge, apparently. No title yet, just a vague idea based on the quote below.
This isn't even a real chapter, more like an opener. A prologue?
My brain is mush. ughhh.
“What was any art but a mould in which to imprison for a moment the shining elusive element which is life itself - life hurrying past us and running away, too strong to stop, too sweet to lose.”
-Willa Cather
If you asked him, Ryan wouldn’t call himself an artist. Art wasn’t his profession, it was his one true love. Art would never let him down the way a person could. Ryan didn’t talk much, he might if he had people to talk to, but he doesn’t. Ryan lives in solitude on the third story of an old factory that was turned into an apartment building. He can hear the commotion of everyday life, people hailing cabs, calling out names and sobbing late into the night. It’s no wonder he feels no need to associate with these “normal” people. Rather than talk to the people, Ryan sits on a small upholstered bench beside the window, facing the street full of subjects: painting, sketching, photographing. Being a man of many talents Ryan chooses his desired medium each morning when he wakes. Some mornings he wakes up and all he can manage is his Nikon camera, while other days his long fingers itch to sketch every detail of the street below. Ryan loved art and art loved Ryan. There were no mixed signals, everything was black and white, unless of course, Ryan got adventurous. Things in Ryan’s life were simple, he dealt with only the people he had to, until that one fateful day.
Ryan was quietly pacing the bare concrete beside his window, carefully observing the measurements of each step when something outside, on the street, caught his attention. A person, no. A woman had been hit by a car while crossing the street. Ryan pressed his face to the cool glass to try to get a better look. That woman was his landlord. All Ryan could think about was how much he didn’t want to have to move if she was dead and the government took over the building. His apartment was by no means a home, but it was cozy enough for him, and his love. Ryan ran his ink stained fingers through his hair before walking over to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He leaned against the counter as he slowly sipped at the steaming beverage. The apartment was a mess. There were sketch pad and canvases haphazardly placed on the floor along with tubes of paint and cases of pens and pencils. His lips raise to form a small smirk. His partner had obviously done some redecorating when he wasn’t paying attention.
REVISED!
If you asked him, Ryan wouldn’t call himself an artist. He was just a twenty-three year old with boyish features, a body with too many sharp angles, bones that yearned to break through his pale skin and a mess of honey brown hair that never seemed to look anything resembling “good.”
And besides, Art wasn’t his profession; it was his one true love. Art would never let him down the way a person could. Ryan wasn’t what you would call a hermit, but he wasn’t far from becoming one. People didn’t understand Ryan, Ryan didn’t understand people. Ryan loved details in his art, but not quite as much in his everyday life. He lived by himself in a rather spacious loft apartment in the heart of a city that no one has heard of. Ryan had the option to live in New York City but that was too pretentious in his mind. “Hi, I’m the artist, Ryan Ross, I live in NYC.” That was just not his style. This small city was just perfect for him though, it had a small town feeling but with taller buildings and more ruckus. He can hear the commotion of the city perfectly, people hailing cabs, calling out names and sobbing late into the night. It’s no wonder he feels no need to associate with these “normal” people but he likes to feel included nonetheless. Rather than talk to the people, Ryan sits on a small upholstered bench beside the window, facing the street full of subjects: painting, sketching, photographing. Being a man of many talents Ryan chooses his desired medium each morning when he wakes. Some mornings he wakes up and all he can manage is his Nikon camera, while other days his long fingers itch to sketch every detail of the street below. Ryan loved art and art loved Ryan. There were no mixed signals; everything was black and white, unless of course, Ryan got adventurous. Things in Ryan’s life were simple; he dealt with only the people he had to, until that one fateful day.
Ryan was quietly pacing the bare concrete beside his window, carefully observing the measurements of each step when something outside, on the street, caught his attention. A person, no. A woman had been hit by a car while crossing the street. Ryan pressed his face to the cool glass to try to get a better look. That woman was his landlord. All Ryan could think about was how much he didn’t want to have to move if she was dead and the government took over the building. His apartment was by no means a home, but it was cozy enough for him, and his love. Ryan ran his ink stained fingers through his hair before walking over to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. He leaned against the counter as he slowly sipped at the steaming beverage. The apartment was a mess. There were sketch pads and canvases haphazardly placed on the floor along with tubes of paint and cases of pens and pencils. His lips rise to form a small smirk. His partner had obviously done some redecorating when he wasn’t paying attention. He carefully observed the space that he always seemed to ignore. The floors had paint stains in a multitude of colors, the curtains were dusty and faded and his twin mattress sat, lonely, in the corner covered by one blanket and adorned with one white pillow. Ryan laughed at the lack of creativity that his apartment possessed. Ryan walked over to his window, took a seat on his bench and lit a cigarette as he watched the EMT’s cover his landlord’s body with a plain white sheet.
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tired
nervous
