Nia's Resolve | 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘣𝘰𝘺 𝘚𝘺𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘦

6 »

↳ ᶜᵃˢᵖᶤᵃᶰ ↴

More of a curve here. Yes, that's it. So graceful. Perfect. No-

Bits of used eraser cluttered the sketch paper as Caspian removed the line he had just drawn. It wasn't right. His forehead creased as he examined his work. Fifteen plus years of drawing and he still couldn't do hands to his liking.

Looking down at his own hand, he tried to transform it into a woman's. The only difference was smaller knuckles, more refined fingers, a gentler constitution...

The human figure had always entranced him. From younger years, a growing collection of wooden mannequins populated his desk. Ovals and rectangles, stacked in roughly the shape of a body, had decorated the margins of his sparse class notes through grade school.

He graduated from stick figures long ago, now drawing detailed nude subjects and the occasional portrait. His favorite by far was to draw different sex positions. And of course, practicing them when given the chance.

When he drew, he was able to focus completely, akin to entering a meditative state. Analyzing the naked human form was more complex than people tended to believe, and also a great filler for times like this— he hadn't gotten laid in almost two weeks. Others turned to porn, but it was crude and tasteless compared to art. Caspian preferred to examine what went into sensuality in place of merely watching the carnal act.

He stuck to pencils or pens as a medium, but experimented with all types of crayons, acrylics, and charcoal. The current piece he worked on was a woman poised on a stool, elbows bound behind her back with a rope that wrapped around to her stomach and framed delicate breasts before dipping lower. He'd color her in later, giving special attention to the two taut peaks on her chest and the pink pearl peeking out behind a coarse length of rope at the apex of her legs, meant to be the center of the piece.

His degree in business was a front, meant to hold down a decent job that would support him enough to continue his hobby. What he truly wanted was to pursue art. He would have gone to art school if given the choice, but the first time he brought that up to his parents had also been the last. Tuition and housing would be more than he could afford on his own, even if he could've juggled a full time job and classes.

That spark of enthusiasm he carried in his youth flickered when he went off to college, but never went out . No one knew he drew these days. His father had all but forgotten. However, it wasn't something Caspian could simply stop.

A portrait or sketch caught a moment that would fade in real time, could capture those rare occurrences of pleasure that never lasted very long. In a way, drawings were lifeless, they came without desire or protest.

On canvas he didn't have to deal with the sorrow behind someone's fake smile, or the withered state of their soul hidden within. If he wanted his subject to smile, all he had to do was draw one on them.

Art was the only way he could see true beauty in human existence. The subjects he drew were his creations, with no back stories and no aspirations. Their only purpose was to bend to his whim and show a reality he wished he could create.

A much harder task was to set about fixing broken pieces of real people. He had seen his parents try—and fail.

When he noticed someone's pain, he also knew he couldn't take away their problems. So he opted to turn a blind eye. He couldn't be a savior. Couldn't change reality. Nowadays he drew to pass the time and ignored the rest.

A knock came at the apartment door and he looked up. Adjusting his eyes to the dim glow of the desk lamp, the only light left on, he realized how much time had passed since he sat down. The sun had already disappeared.