Sun, Moon and Stars // Karlnapity

Astrophilia

He didn't know how much time had passed until the next meeting. How long he had had to wait until the next time he entered the place where he really felt alive. For days he had lain between the four walls of his apartment, staring at the blank canvases. His head had been screaming, hoping his body would motivate itself to paint something, to at least try. By the end of the day, the canvases had remained white, and from his bed, he had watched the sun disappear.

He loved art but overwhelmed by the emotions, the longing, and the feeling of despair, his body was powerless. His head was bursting with energy and creativity, but his hands would much rather stroke through the soft black hair and over the soft flawless skin than getting stained with paint. The strong feelings were supposed to flood him with creativity, but instead, they paralyzed him with their violence.

The next morning he felt better, felt his muscles begging for movement and his bones creaking with discomfort. This was better than rigidity, and he crossed his room, bumping into his painted furniture and passing the many paintings on the wall. It was easy to tell from the different styles that not all of the painted works were by Karl himself.

He loved his mother's works. They were full of feelings and messages, packed in crooked shapes and strange figures so that only she herself could know what she was expressing with her art. Karl wished he could express the same feelings. He wanted to inspire others, to touch them in the smallest corner of their hearts. That was why he had started his art.

Despite his momentary block in picking up a pen, he admitted that art was important to him. He found beauty in the tiniest blossom or the smallest leaf that flew by. Being in the presence of art was the only real moment when Karl felt alive.

Creativity was his life, his blood pulsing in his veins and pumping through his heart.

If it were taken away from him, his life would be taken away as well. But people didn't understand that. They thought that these things were something simple and insignificant. They compared his love for art to his craving for his favorite food. The loss ached in the heart, but it was bearable. The loss of art, however, was something else for Karl. It was as if his heart was being torn out and his eyes gouged out.

He lived for himself and he himself lived for art.

When he looked at the old paintings, he sometimes hated himself for being too caught up in the past. He had left his home to study, others thought he had left his life behind and moved on, but if you looked inside his head you could see he was running in place. He was stuck in quicksand and the past wrapped itself around his ankles. The only thing that kept him from being swallowed up by the memories was that he hadn't given up yet.

He had kept running, had kept himself from being swallowed up by the mud by struggling. Time after time he had waited for a way out, a saving rope that someone would throw at him and free him from the dilemma. As time passed, he became more and more aware that he could not do it alone, but what option did he have?

This day he took his eyes off the pictures, an expression of emptiness changed in his eyes as soon as he stepped through the door. Only a little later, he began his day at the university. He had made it through the lectures with nods of his head and frantic notes. The sketches today simply felt wrong, as they had on so many days before.

He waited the last few hours, counting every second that passed until he finally exited the subway station that marked his arrival at the museum. He didn't yet realize that this visit would mean so much more to him than any before.

~~~

The visits to the roof had become a tradition within a short time. The two statues loved the freedom and privacy they felt up there. The wind carried the smell of the city and life with it, mixing with their cells and carrying them further. Moreover, no other artwork found its way outside or onto the roof. They were too afraid of crumbling into dust.