he's a portrait {frerard}

Art, 4

When I got home that night after a talk with Arthur, I had realized why he enjoyed my art so much; and maybe the reason everyone likes my art.

Because he could relate.

That probably isn't the best of things, but I can't stop him. Hell, knowing that people admire you're art is slightly terrifying when it's so terrible. It's even worse hearing that they admire you -millions of questions from concerned parents wondering why their kids looked up to someone who thought death as something to look forward to. But sometimes kids need something to do for them to feel real and make them know they're not alone. I couldn't say much on the topic to be honest, because I wasn't a teenager. But I could remeber myself as admiring people -artist- with the same ideas and passions as me. And I finally felt in on something.

But Arthur... how could he, someone like him, feel so passionate about something relevantly thought as to be terrible. Not that death could be terrible -it can be beautiful and the 'better way' at times.

It's like everytime I close my eyes, I see him smiling and blushing at the small words spoken between us. And that's all I see. His beautifully portrayed face and black, moppy hair. The brown fall leaves and flakes of the green grass.

And how alluring it all is.

I could be enhanced by him for hours, days, week, months, even years. Ever aspect is perfect and trimmed just right. If anyone were to start staring at Arthur, they would find it hard to simply look away. Staring and glancing over every edge of curve of his perfect self.

So that's what I did that night, at two in the morning when I couldn't sleep. I'd close my eyes and imagine his perfection and sketch it out. I used my boring lines, but when I looked it at, it actually made sense. It looked like Arthur. Not nearly as perfect and gorgeous as the real one, but none the less, it was Arthur.

And I smiled.

For once in my self-hating life -I smiled. Maybe the muscles in my mouth were too strained and it ended as quickly as it came, but a small tug at my heart told me it was right. Told me that at that time it was okay to be happy and smile over this boy.

And it occurred to me that this drawing wasn't just a drawing, it was a portrait.

The best one at that.

I look at drawings every day, and none of them are as perfect and appealing as this one. Usually drawings a simple and not as portraying as portraits or maybe the word 'portrait' is just a synonym for the word 'drawing' to not make it seem so secluded and easy for everyone.

Arthur himself is a portrait, the best, most beautiful one, I decided.

And this drawing is only a sliver of how much beauty he contains. There's still everything hidden behind these lines. His aura and everything about him couldn't be expressed through lines, but it would be impossible to do that.

I'll hang this in the gallery, and they'll have to accept it. Maybe because they'll pity me, or they think people will like it, or the real reason: it's just simply lovely.

No, they wouldn't have excuses, they would put it in because it's beautiful and perfect. It's not boring and it's not a photo. It's an elegant piece that everyone would need to see. Not a lazy excuse for something known as art.