A view of Gather's own Selene Skye. She said I could share it with you all. Hope you like it!
Simcha painted like God, each stroke a creation. A perfectionist, if he made one flaw he would tear the work down from his easel and throw it into the fire. His rainbow hands held this hue and that, scars or mementos; they were stained glass windows for all to see through.
Selene was his favorite subject. His paintings of her were a blur, as she was rarely still and so uncooperative. He held snapshots of her in his mind and that was the only way he could focus and paint the truth of her. What Simcha saw surprised her, for she did not see it herself.
He was winding down for the day, sipping hot apple tea and stirring the paints. He felt inspiration coming on. His mind was a mix of azure and white, with a hint of cocoa, something with flavor. He painted by taste, sight, and sound, so even the blind and deaf could experience his work. But when he painted Selene she was just sound, music, a violent and serene concerto. She was madness, but as he painted each stroke a hidden figure appeared. Madness has a match.
Simcha held his hands high in the air, summoning his strength, and focused on the work at hand.
In the center of the canvas a figure appeared. Light, billowy, all the words he associated with his muse, Selene, were present, but they were not enough. The figure danced, sang, curled left to right like a collection of notes escaping a musician’s instrument. She was battered and bruised, but still she swayed, to avoid what pained her. She was ducking, not dancing. Simcha was overwhelmed by the protectiveness he felt for her. A fluid movement, a swirl, a pirouette was nothing more than an escape attempt. Her efforts were for naught. She was imprisoned, chained, and pleading.
Figures appeared in the room beside her, each trying to help. They leapt in front of her to take her pain, but they could not. They pushed her to the side, but to no avail. Selene was surrounded by friends who could not help her and Simcha who loved her, but was not allowed inside the painting. He pushed at the canvas.
“Let me in, let me in,” he begged. But it would not be so. He was unable to enter her world.
In frustration, Simcha gathered his paints, pouring them into one container, sloshing and splashing them on the floor, mixing and stirring until all were black. He threw the shadowy mixture at the painting with a howl and deep desperation in his spirit.
Selene was blonde, waiflike, all things associated with harmony. But she was filled with violence and attack, each of her weapons finely honed and tuned. The pretty flower was well-armed. But her enemies were mist and shadow, creatures with no flesh. Her flaming darts and scythes would have no effect on them. She was their prey.
She had come to Simcha in many dreams, in each one, a flower or a bird, but never as herself. She was amazed he could see her at all and tantalized that he saw her as she really was. She did not believe in rescuers, neither in her real life nor in these dreams. She never did. She fought and she was strong, but things stayed the same. It was no use. Her torturers would get her and she would find no freedom.
But Simcha would have none of it. His black paint coated the canvas, but still she shone through.
“My love, my love, come to me,” he would say, though Selene was deaf to his cries. Falling deeper into sorrow, she was not able to reach back.
Simcha did not turn to the left or the right, but kept working. He pulled away the now tacky black paint, peeling it and slicing it carefully, leaving the canvas intact and displaying only Selene. Silent and frozen, she was immovable with the shadow completely surrounding her and hemming her in. He studied her. Her face was taught and strong, her eyes like stones. She glimmered from deep within. And Simcha, the Rescuer, pulled her out. Just like that, with only his hand, the Rescuer lifted Selene from the canvas and brought her to stand in his room, in front of him, unpainted and real.
She inhaled an awkward first breath, not taking her eyes from his. His room was simple and plain. It was empty, no friends trying to rescue him, no clutter, no voices in the next room. Simcha lived alone save for the hope in his heart and the freedom in his eyes. He had nothing to offer her, but her release.
“How,” she asked, aware of her own voice for the first time she could remember.
Simcha put down the brushes, smoothed the wrinkles on his jacket, and with a sigh and shrug replied, “I am your creator and I created you to be free.”