The Canvass

The Canvass

The boy lived on a white canvass. He tied paint brushes on his shoes and skied across his world, across his universe. On days when he was sad, he would use blue paint; on days when he was mad, he would use red paint. Sometimes the boy would feel creative. He would mix all the colors of his palette onto his brushes. When the day was over he would grin as broadly as his world, hands on hips, eyes gleaming, and would sleep well that night. Sometimes the boy wouldn’t put pain on his brushes at all. He would stay in his corner of the canvass and think of wild dreams, of painful futures, glorious pasts, while the day got dimmer and dimmer, his prospects turned bright. When it became too bright he decided to use black paint. He painted his whole world this non-color and sank into it, sank into the Universe and floated forever more. There was no more paint. There was no more canvass. There was only a boy…until there was no boy, but darkness, a void, never-ending, no stars lit up this desert of blackness.