February 14, 2009
DeWalt School of Art
Chaz's Quarters

Chaz rolled out of bed and glared at the clock as it beeped angrily at him. He sighed and walked to the shower, resigned to another day. /Another day... How many times have I thought that?/, he mused as he showered.

He shook the water out of his eyes and reached for a towel, the warm blanket of depression beginning to seep over his soul as he realized what day it was. /Wonderful./, He thought to himself. /Another Valentine's Day... Just what I need./ He dried himself and looked in the mirror, obviously unimpressed in his current mood. /And getting old, too. Why aren't I allowed to stay young and happy like everyone else looks./ He smirked at that. /Well, at least I'm not paying for my looks./ He grinned a bit as he finished dressing and headed toward the kitchen.

His mood didn't last. It never did seem too, unfortunately. Chaz slid slowly back down into his emotional rut, languishing in the sadness all around himself. /Look around, Chaz. Everywhere, people are here, learning to live, to grow, to see beauty... Who am I to teach these things? How can one teach beauty when the most precious of all things eludes him?/ He shook his head again, trying to clear the negative thoughts within himself. Finally, he returned to his room and shut the door, surrendering to his muse's demands for something gloomy.

/I never understand it. Is there something wrong with me?/ He pondered this question as he began to paint, shades of red and grey mixing in tragic dance upon the canvas before him. /I always seem so close, but it slips away./ The swirling vortices of white began to faintly outline a few points, only bringing greater contrast and definition to the loneliness displayed. /How long has it been, anyway? A year? Two years? Five years?/ He sighed a moment before resuming his creation. /The answer must be too long, at least since I've seen anyone seriously./ A black shadow sprang to life on the work, slithering from side to side. /But then, maybe there is noone for me.../ He stepped back, and looked at his work.

The blood red of a heart appeared to be the centerpiece, but the white highlight around it did little to portray the innocence and purity normally associated with the color. All around the heart, in layered and almost living shades of black and grey, hands and jagged maws reached for the prize, all wanting to claim it, and all seeming to be gaining on the goal. No ray of hope was left within this work, not a single drop of sunshine would be reflected here. This was a piece dedicated to hopelessness, to loss, and eternal inner agony.

He nodded at the piece as though he had expected nothing less, and looked to the sky for a moment. /I hope, my muse, that you are satisfied, for I nothing left today.../ He put down his pallette and walked away, leaving the canvas on the stand. After all, he had things to do. For him, it was just another day.