𝔇𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔪 𝔊𝔦𝔯𝔩 ♂ / ♀

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕿𝖍𝖗𝖊𝖊

JEAN'S ART BLOCK HAVE gone worst every passing day. He can't picture the things he needed to make; he couldn't make something with his hands and it is stressing him out. Everything is wearing him off. He procrastinated a lot; problematizing things that aren't needed-and not even existing in the first place. It might be a little-to-no big deal for anyone, but it is vexatious enough for Jean's current situation. He is struggling mentally and every fiber in his being is slowly crumbling into pieces, akin to sands falling from one's hand onto the ground.

The ceaseless turmoil in the man's mind is making himself tired from everything. He couldn't find any inspirations for him to keep on going. His sense of thinking is also beginning to fleet and it is one of the most alarming things for him to consider reliving.

Today, Jean is lying on the floor of his workroom: splayed around him were cans of different color paint schemes, disparate sizes of paintbrush, and several of his color palettes. He's holding a large paintbrush dipped with already hardened white paint. His apron was surprisingly clean today, and not even a small blotch was smeared on the fabric. Jean's eyes were glued on his square, indigo, boring ceiling. His gaze was fixated on it for already two hours now, as if it's the most interesting thing he had ever laid eyes on.

A bored, mediocre expression was etched on his face, stressed and currently lifeless. His bags were visibly dark, which is not an exaggeration at all. He released a sigh.

"Gah... stupid life." he muttered, feeling himself tearing up from the soreness of his eyes; they were dry and reddened. He wiped his eyes carelessly with the back of his hand and covered them with his arm after shutting his eyelids close.

Just then as he was about to feel sleepy again, his phone rang. He grunted as his free hand dug in his apron's pocket to search for the source of the obnoxious noise and the blaring name of his friend can be seen upon he turned the screen on. He glided the pad of his thumb over the smooth surface of his gadget towards the green icon on the screen.

"Sup?" Jean asks his friend weakly, his throat scratchy and it made his voice sound hoarse.

"Nothing much; how about you; are you okay?" Marco asks to his friend, worry visible in his voice.

"I think I'm just doing fine. I'm tired. I feel like puking," his reply.

"Oh Jean... you need to rest. You know that wearing yourself from working too much is bad for your health," Marco said, concern laced evidently by his tone.

Jean exhaled tiredly, he was about to complain regarding his friend being so much of a worrywart, "I know. Fine, I'd rest for about a day; is that alright? Because damn, I need to finish this; there's only two art commissions about to be done, and hopefully- just hopefully, I can finish these two and I could have a small break for like a month. Who knows? Can you post it on my platforms? Like posting about having a taking a break on the commissions for a while?"

Jean paused upon hearing a thoughtful hum from the other side of the call, seeming like Marco is doing something about the matter or jotting down important notes. He wasn't sure himself. After all, he couldn't know considering that their conversation is only a phone call.

He continued once again upon hearing an approving noise from his friend.

"Plus, I already have enough money to live for like two months. Clients sure pay a lot and I'm grateful." he continued, referring from his previous client, Erwin Smith.

Jean propped himself up by his elbows with a grunt, then standing up from his place, only by stumbling a bit when his vision blackened for a while. Fortunately, he gripped on the nearby easel and regained proper balance before exhaling again.