The Artist

He was the “inattentive” one at school, always drawing, a pencil never far from his grasp.

He was the “quiet” one at home, always absorbed in his work, never stopping to look up, never seeing anything but the wide-rule sheets of his scrappy notebook.

He got the worst grades. He never payed attention to lessons. That notebook took up his entire life.

He had his own little world in there, another dimension of scribbles and smudges.

In the end, his grades didn’t matter when he applied for Yale. He sent in his notebook and waited to hear back.

Five years later, he stands in his office, a cluttered mess of half-finished canvases, worn-out paint brushes with paint still crusting their edges, and wooden easels. His latest work sits on the wall, perfectly positioned for him to grace it with streaks of color.

The bright stage light shines down onto it, illuminating his careful strokes. The light bounces off the half-finished painting and hits the glass casing of his Yale diploma. He stands at the side of the canvas, his back sore and his eyes drooping, a whole night of painting behind him. But he mustn’t stop now. He must keep going, even if it means that he collapses from exhaustion.

He’s on to something.

He can feel it.

His paint-stained hands quiver with excitement.

He runs the brush over the canvas, feeling the magic of the paint, a small tingle of wonder running up his arm.

He dips and swirls, twists and curls, until....

Yes.

That’s enough for today.

He then lays his paintbrush on the table and collapses into his favorite armchair.

He falls asleep right as his alarm clock hits 6:30 AM.