The early morning sun had just begun to rise and the dawn’s pink early light brought the earth to life in this small valley. The sun had still not risen above the trees, but the light was bright enough for Jason to see his canvas through the open window. He turned off the corner lamp that he had used while mixing his palette of oil paints. The studio had been pitch black at 4 a.m. when Jason awoke and made his first cup of coffee. As he lifted the mug to his mouth, he felt the warm sensation on his face. The Colombian steam irritated the two-day-old scratch on his left cheek. He barely drank half his cup by the time the coffee was cold and the room was bright.
To say it was just a scratch is actually underselling the injury. His girlfriend had thrown a lamp at his face, not unprovoked, a couple of nights prior. Margot usually wasn’t the violent type; in fact, she would even describe herself as a pacifist if pressed on the subject of violence. She even had a peace sign tattooed on her right foot so that she could, quote, “walk with peace everywhere she steps on this earth.” How could someone with this sort of disdain for violence and longing for peace, no matter how corny, come to throw a lamp at Jason’s head? We will get to that, but it’s best if we start from the beginning.
Almost a year ago, Jason was struggling. Not with painting in particular, just in general with life. While he may not have been clinically depressed, he could have been described as acutely depressed. Bear in mind, though, that I am indeed no psychologist. Jason was struggling with his place in the world, and his main struggle, he would come to find, was due to the fact that his life lacked any sort of joy. His job wasn’t fulfilling, he didn’t really have any hobbies, and he had failed to make any new friends since accepting his job in Dallas straight out of school. From the outside looking in, one would look at Jason’s job, apartment, car, and degree and think to themselves, “This guy has it all figured out.” But from the inside out, inside Jason was a quiet desperation for the need for something more. After two years, five months, and fourteen days, Jason finally figured out something was missing from his life. The question then shifted from ‘Is something missing from my life?’ to ‘What is missing from my life?’
The search was on.
Down the rabbit hole he went. Scouring the internet and local libraries alike for the key to happiness. The montage of classic religious and philosophical texts, new-age gurus, and wannabe social media influencers consumed Jason for the coming days, weeks, and months. Taking in old and new wisdom at an astonishing rate, Jason began to see a clear picture of where his life was and where his life needed to be. When it was all said and done, Jason came to find the key was one thing. Well, really two things, but they are related.
1. Jason needed to find joy in his life.
2. Jason needed to use his newfound joy to bring joy to others.
It may sound overly simple, but for an analytical mind such as Jason’s, this simple two-part equation was the last proof he needed to solve for the dissertation of the rest of his life. He knew he could not have either of these things without the other, but he did need to bring joy into his life. Real lasting joy that came from within. Knowing that you need joy is one thing, but finding out what that joy is is another.
The search continued.
Jason began to rack his brain. Where does one start for the key to finding joy? The only logical thing that Jason could think to do was to think of the last time he was truly happy. The last time that he truly felt whole. After racking his brain for a few days with no luck, he decided he needed some alone time. Some time to be with himself, and only himself, to finally hear this whisper that somehow kept evading him. That upcoming weekend, he said no to his career, no to his friends, and even no to his family. He would come to find that silencing all the external noise was the only way to truly change the place in his life. Solitude brought him to a walk. A walk brought him to nature. A walk in the woods brought him to his answer.
The sun was shining bright and hot that particular spring day; it may have been the hottest day of the year thus far. The leopard-spotted forest floor was slightly moving with the afternoon breeze, and Jason felt the cinch of heat with every step in the sun. As he walked, he still thought about the last time he was happy, and still no answer came. The further back he went, the further he realized just how far he had gone astray. He thought of all the times he could have gone left instead of right or up instead of down. Each step deeper into the woods was a step deeper into his mind. As he made his way deep into his subconscious, he almost forgot he was walking at all.
With each step into the woods, the world outside got smaller and the trees became bigger. As the trees became bigger, so did their roots. As the outside world faded away and the world of the trees gave way, Jason’s world turned from the external to the internal. As you can imagine, someone walking through the woods and not paying attention could really enter a hazardous situation, especially if they aren’t really paying attention to where they are walking. Before Jason knew it, he was face down on the ground.
He wasn’t seriously hurt or knocked out, just startled. Back to reality, really. His hands and knees were covered in dirt as he gathered himself, stood up from the ground, and dusted himself off. He could only laugh at himself as he looked back at the old oak root that tripped him up. As he looked back forward, he realized he had made his way off the walking path. In every direction, he turned, looking for cleanly grazed paths, but there was none to be found. He must have looked in each direction, twice, before heading towards the light. The only clear path is the one you can see, even if you can’t actually see it. Heading towards the light was the only logical thing that Jason could do at the time.
Jason scratched and clawed his way through the branches and the leaves, trying desperately just to make another step. With each step, he could see a little clearer and feel the sun just that much more on his skin. The end of the forest was near, and the light at the end of the forest brightly and blindingly illuminated what lay past the last tree. The last step out of the woods was ultimately the first step into this new joyful world that Jason had hoped still existed.
When his pupils adjusted and he was finally able to get a glance, he saw a pond with a dock, and on that dock sat a man with a dog. The pond and the sky melded together in an almost identical blue, separated by a thick dark green border. The man sat, not fishing or swimming, just simply doing nothing at all. Next to him sat man’s best friend, wagging his tail as if the man were fishing for bones. A perfect moment that felt like no one in the world had ever seen before. A moment that felt that no one should have seen. Jason did not take another step towards the scene; he simply pulled out his phone, took a picture, and retreated back into the woods. He crackled some broken branches under his steps, but by the time the man and the dog turned around, there was no sign of Jason at all.
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Jason forgot, or perhaps didn’t bother, to lock his door when he returned home. He plopped down on the couch and lay staring at the ceiling. He pulled the picture out and sat staring at his little moment in time that was now all his. He stopped on the way home and printed the photo out; he was so enthralled with the image. After a good while, he stood up when his fingers began to grow numb. The outlines of the photo engraved into his mind began to fade as he came back to reality and the circumstances of his living situation.
The first thing to do was to open the curtains—all of them. Not just to get some sunlight into what had turned into an almost cave-like dwelling but to see the extent to which housekeeping had gone awry. The house was in such a state that it didn’t really matter where Jason started, only that he started. And start he did. Jason didn’t stop until he could see his picture through anything—the wall, the floor, the bathroom mirror, even the sink. By the time he was through, the house looked like it hadn’t even been lived in at all. The only thing left was to clean himself.
The shower’s heat quickly turned his fair skin red. This particular shower was hotter than Jason usually took, with scrubbing from head to toe, even the spots Jason never bothered to clean before, or at least not that often. The steam purred through the open bathroom door as Jason got in bed with his photo and turned on his bedside lamp. The photo looked different, better even, under the lamp’s warm light. More vintage, more nostalgic, more like home. Sleep came earlier and easier to Jason than it had in a long time. What Jason did next surprised himself more than it will probably surprise you.
As he awoke the next morning, the first thing that he could think to do was reach into his nightstand for his notebook and a pencil. He opened the blank notebook and ripped out the first page. Jason had never forgotten about the blank notebook that took up space in his nightstand dresser and actually thought about it on occasion. You see,
Jason’s therapist had advised him to write down some of his dreams after they happened as a means of coping with or trying to understand the subconscious. When I say ‘dreams,’ know that is the technical definition of what Jason had experienced all his life. However, more accurately, his nightly visions could be more aptly described as nightmares or even night terrors.
The main difference between a nightmare and a night terror is that you can’t wake up from a night terror. Sleep paralysis sets in as you are seemingly stuck in your dream while having the consciousness to realize that you’re actually in a dream. Though one cannot force themselves to wake up. Jason spent many a long night trapped in nightmares that he could not wake up from. Nightmares so intense that he could almost feel the pain he was enduring, only to wake up and realize that no injuries were indeed sustained—no matter how real they felt. So you can imagine Jason never wanted to write down his dreams, even if he remembered them. Up until now.
He tore the first page out of his notebook and began his work. He had never thought more about the movement of his hand with a pencil. Slowly but surely, he weaved the lead across the page, taking frequent breaks to make sure he was marking straight. When it was all said and done, Jason carefully moved his printed photo from under the piece of notebook paper and placed it carefully on his bedside table. He held up his newly traced picture to the morning light in his window to study the image. He noticed things that he hadn’t before. He understood the photo. The engineering behind the image. The different ratios of the dock, the water, the trees, the subjects, and even the clouds. Everything made sense in his mind about why objectively this image was special and even eye-catching.
The blissful state quickly wore off as Jason suddenly threw his blanket off and jumped out of bed. He realized he was going to be late for work. No matter how inspired one gets on the weekend, one still has to show up for work on Monday morning. Jason threw himself together in his business casual attire after running his hair under the shower. He somehow managed to grab a quick breakfast while gathering all of his things for work. This was the complete opposite of how Jason got ready for work when he had just started his job, but as the weeks, months, and years went on, his routine became more manic as he procrastinated having to go to work until the last possible moment. I don’t know if he ever fully comprehended his apprehension for avoiding his morning routine and going to work; he just thought he had become efficient at getting ready. On his way out the door, he went back and grabbed his photo and placed it in his bag ever so gently so it did not wrinkle.
The commute to the office was different this morning for Jason. Despite all the frustrations of morning rush-hour traffic, Jason didn’t seem to notice, or more importantly, didn’t seem to care. He sat in his seat, hands on ten and two, with the slightest smile on his face. The radio wasn’t even turned on. He began to notice other scenery, albeit scarce in the DFW metroplex, and saw these passing images more differently than he had before. The beauty and symmetry of everyday things, no matter the size, had never stuck out to him before. Sitting at the last red light before he arrived at his office park, he pulled the picture out of his bag and stared at it once more. A rather aggressive honk reminded him that green means go.
Something about tracing the image with his own hand made the image stick out even more in his mind. They say the best way to remember something is to write it down. Jason heard that one time in college when his psychology professor insisted that the students handwrite their notes in order to better retain the information. Most of the students nodded their heads with a silent laugh and continued to clack the keys on their laptops. Jason tried the professor’s tactic for the rest of the class, then he never really wrote with his hand again. He really only showed up for tests after that due to someone in the class emailing out all of the notes.
Through the parking garage, and into the lobby and up the elevator, Jason saw his picture. It illuminated in his mind with every step into the bland, 1980s-designed office space. Once the elevator doors opened at his floor, the image vanished from his mind just as quickly as it had appeared. For the first time since yesterday’s fateful afternoon, the smile left Jason’s face. He walked through the rows of cubicles, giving friendly nods and forced smiles to his fellow soldiers in arms. As he sat down at his desk with a sigh, all that was left in front of him was the blank, black computer screen staring him dead in the eyes. He tried to find the pond, the dock, the man, or the dog floating around the dead dark canvas, but was unsuccessful. He couldn’t even find a leaf.
‘Maybe a coffee will help,’ thought Jason to himself, but even the not-so-subtle nudge from strong black coffee couldn’t convince him to turn on his computer. There was a roadblock or a stop sign in his brain preventing him from starting his work. The longer he waited, the worse he became. He began to feel a phantom pill in his throat and his hands began to feel like they were covered in cement. When Jason’s chest felt empty and achy, he started breaking into a bit of a nervous sweat. He had never felt any of these physical sensations before, let alone all of them at once. Out of pure instinct, Jason did the only thing he could think to do—he scribbled on a piece of notebook paper and stood up from his desk quickly. Jason didn’t realize this at the time, but he never took his bag off his shoulder. Not after he walked in the first time, not when he got up to pour some coffee, and not when he returned to his desk. All of the possessions that he had at work never left the brown leather shoulder bag.
Before Jason even walked all the way into his boss’s office, Mark was already asking him how his weekend was. Despite the lack of satisfaction and purpose that Jason was having with his work, he and Mark actually got along rather well. Mark had never reprimanded him in the duration of his employment, they both took the time to get to know each other by asking personal questions about each other’s lives outside of work, and occasionally they would celebrate the end of the workweek with an ice-cold beer and not discuss work at all until the following Monday. For all of the prior listed reasons, Mark was a little shocked when not only did Jason not answer verbally the question when he was inquired about his weekend, his only response was placing a note on Mark’s desk and walking straight out without a word.
The note read: I quit. Sorry.
Jason slowly opened his eyes as his paint-colored clothes ripped away from his newly rainbow sheets. He rolled out of bed and began squinting through the early afternoon light. The remnants of his marathon painting session lay remaining on his sheets. As he made his way down the hallway and quickly passed the painting, there was a tightness, a small piece of anxiety that he could feel with each step. From the moment he entered consciousness that day, he was a bit on edge. His chest was tight and his throat felt swollen. Unlike the anxiety of his past, he knew exactly why he was feeling on edge - and what exactly he was feeling anxious about.
He blew by the painting without so much as I look. He deliberately kept his eyes straight ahead on his way into the kitchen. He made himself a cup of coffee and watched and did not move until the last drop landed in his mug. The second time he walked past was harder than the first, this time he snuck a micro glance as he made his way onto his front porch.
“Just making sure it’s still there,” he said to himself as the door slammed behind him. He took a sip then took a seat as he glanced at the spring time afternoon rocking back and forth on his wooden swing that faced the street. Nature was out and about, but not a soul in sight. He wondered where everyone was, but then remembered it was Monday afternoon. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept in this late on a Monday, much less enjoyed a coffee on the porch.
After taking his last sip of coffee, for the third time at least, it was time to stop putting off the inevitable. He slapped his knees and shot up onto his feet and went quickly back in the house leaving his favorite mug on the porch out of either excitement or distraction - he couldn’t remember. He kept his head down through the front door, still looking at his feet until he was seated on the couch in the optimal viewing position. As he fell back on the couch he raised his head. His anticipatory anxiety evaporated before his backside hit the cushion.
The painting looked good. Better than he thought at least.
A small smirk overcame Jason’s face as he held the photo he took just last weekend up. The photo had become wilted and dog eared over just the past week, but the result of the painting was worth the wear and tear. He glanced at the photo, then at the painting. He repeated this process at least several times, each time observing aspect of the photo. After his work from afar checked out he walked towards the painting to inspect the finer details of his work. He knew if his work were to fall short it would be in the little details, not the big picture. The main detail that slowed him down during his painting was the reflections on the water. The reflections took the longest to paint and were under the closest of examinations during his inspection. To his rather pleasant surprise, the reflections held up after a closer look.
Jason was self aware enough to know that just because he did not see any major flaws with his painting, doesn’t mean that there were any. The fact is, he needed a second opinion. However, what made the situation peculiar is that he did not know where to find one. Not only did he know anything about art, but nobody in his life really knew anything about art either. Now, if he wanted to know the score to last night’s game or the hottest club in town - he would have no problem tracking either down. In fact, he could probably find both with a single phone call. But a credible critique of art? This would require some effort, perhaps more than the painting itself.
Jason’s research would proved that the local art community was a lot more active than he originally thought. The more he researched the more this world that he never even knew existed came to life. Festivals, meetups, galleries and openings. A lot of these places he recognized, or at the very least recognized the part of town they were held. The biggest surprise was a coffee shop that he frequented actually showcased artists on a regular basis. Jason laughed that he never even bothered to look up the walls to notice. It’s the last thing one might notice when you’re hungover, hanging on by a thread, and waiting on your triple-shot latte.
As fate would have it, or call it beginner’s luck, a close-by neighborhood hosted a potluck of local artisans on the first Friday of every month. The first Friday of the month happened to be this Friday. It may sense for Jason to go and meet some like-minded individuals. However, it was just now Monday, and he was still quite fatigued from his marathon painting session. By Wednesday, he decided that he would to the festival and meet some other artists. But by Thursday afternoon it was decided that not only would he go, but he would also bring his painting along too. He decided that ripping the proverbial band-aid off and displaying his art for the world to see would let him know sooner, rather than later if his work was decent. Well, not the whole world exactly, but Dallas is pretty big.
Great addition! The author's personal narration is a strong device and the story left me wanting more.