I burnt my favorite painting. I had to. I needed to.
All my other creations, all those random faces of shape, color and shade with a touch of illuded free will on canvas; none satisfied me. I was angry at them.
I started nailing nails for these painted paintings. Over bare surfaces of walls, each pair of eyes on each canvas made my room a witness.
I was out of canvas, paint and brush, but I had this room and these walls. I had my sweat, my blood. I had my nails and my claws.
I scarred the room, and the walls, painted murals of red lines and splatters of shapes and shades. Faces on the walls had to be reborn.
I could see the warmth of the red sun cast the shadow of a dead man on the floor. I smiled as I saw two parallel lines reaching for me from him. I was done. It was the creation of me in the boundary of canvas for the witness to see. Sun, burn me and I give the promise of return.