Picture this, this picture I describe. I see the picture, and am seen in it. It is life, a moment. See this, picture this.
Start with a wall, a mustard yellow wall. The texture of which flits capriciously, woodwork placed in forms upon it, describing a scene. Windows, doors, and shapes. Pictures within the picture. Picture frames upon the wall. Within the frames, variety. Reds and whites and blacks, color and art and posters.
Next a flower, a red flower. Fake, dead, cold, only there as representation of beauty. It fails at this purpose. Instead, it speaks as a superfluous ornament. Its stem is stabbed into a circular, red orb, common and grotesque. Upon the table it sits. The chocolate brown, modest surface. There are other things upon it as well. A glass, a mug, a journal, a Bible. And, taking up the space in the middle, a laptop whose keys are pressed rapidly, and screen open to creation. The mug is emptied, but recently. A pen, also, is upon that table. For in these, my pictures, there is always a pen.
And we see a man in this image, this depiction. A man, truly. That is what he calls himself. Though what is a man? Is it state of mind, of age, of responsibility? What state is the state of man? Define it he cannot. But he will save those ponderings for a later date. Now, he is engaged, painting a picture.
Now we look to that around him? The tables and chairs and people and music and smells. Or instead, focus on the man’s mind, explore its recesses. The truth is, he is thinking more of this picture than anything else. What to make it come alive. Adjectives. Soft, black Bible, worn journal, stained table, glossy mug. He smells something horrible.
Then he remembered, that he forgot. A most important thing. The clothes in the picture, clothes on the man. Black slacks, long dark socks, dress shoes. Blue shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, black tie. He felt, and knew he looked, perfect for the occasion. To be here, writing. Painting a picture. For you to see.