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Ink Wave

It is so empty in this room that even the noise has abandoned the space. There is nothing alive inside except for myself and the shadow that I cast. It is just a cube with one door and the door has been sealed by the silent.

No sunlight comes to visit, for there is no windows. There is only an unnatural light that has decided to take my shadow away from me and now I am in this desolated space. I am alone in this empty room.

Without any noise, it was welcoming at first. I took a moment of contemplation and the enjoyment of alone time. Then it became unusual. I was beginning to wonder where the people, the color, and the music had gone.

It was a lifeless room without a soul. I couldn’t even hear the voices in my own head anymore. I could only keep my eyes open. I just kept my gaze focused on the room’s blank expression. I was trying to catch a smile or a hint of laughter for its joke, but there was nothing to find except for the walls.

It took a while but there eventually came a door. There was a door, but it meant nothing except for decor because the handle was long gone on its own somewhere. Door after door came, composing and surrounding.

None of the rectangles would open. None of them would move. They just stayed implanted in the walls with a blank barrier without a handle. I try for too long.

Only one will open and it leaves nothing but an extended hall with another bunch of too many doors without handles. They stand stiff and tall and when I attempt, they stand stiff and yawn. When I finally give up, they disappear into darkness, once again, leaving everything dark.

Nothing’s left except for the soulful dark and the unornamented walls. Nothing’s left except for an empty room.

After so much patience. After too many nights alone. After excessive wondering. I pull the pen out from behind my ear and decide to change it all myself. I recall my imagination and let my imaginary friends join me.

The empty room screams its argument with a suffering silence, causing my ears to ring but I continue to raise my self towards the blank page in front of me. Each design is a word and I fill the wall with a new appearance.

The empty room starts to fade away. Color seeps back into the air and I suck it in like oxygen. I don’t ever slow down. I am swinging my blade of light, my arch of hurt and creation against everything in reach. It is nothing at first, but the appeal starts to happen after hours and the globe reveals itself.

Pen after pen is left at my feet as I run each one empty, leeching it until its left at least something to feel. Each drop of ink spread and deepens, until a wave of ink is flooding the roof and down the no longer bare walls. My skin is covered in wondering questions and different worlds.

The walls and ceiling had been alone, yet now they smiled with new possibilities, every dark and vivid color shining a form through. Consequences are forgotten and the artist has left a mark, has left something that will be seen and never forgotten.

As an artist, I have composed a poem of understanding for those in a blank space.

As an artist, I have changed that dark place into something more of a masterpiece.  

As an artist, I have created an ink wave and washed it over this empty room.

Thank you for reading this writing by J. M. Lilin on, The Unsigned Writer. If you’re enjoying this site, leave a like, and subscribe for more!

Also Check Out J. M. Lilin’s Photography At, The Crystalline Mirage.

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