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Poezii Românesti - Romanian Poetry


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I hate birthdays!
prose [ ]
Based on a true story

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by [Roddickutza ]

2018-01-28  |     | 

The last clap of thunder made me jump and drop my brush. I picked it up and went to the windows to close them, feeling relieved that I made it back home before the storm got stronger. The lights started flickering as I noticed there was a bit of rain dripping from the ceiling. I hurried to get a bucket from the bathroom and placed it under the dripping.Then I moved my paintings to safety. Luckily it was not bad. Usually rain does not make me feel sad or scared, but it was something about this storm, about this loft, about being alone on this day, that made me feel drained. Without notice, tears started falling down my cold cheeks and I had no power over them. I can't remember the last time I allowed myself to cry. Not wanting to feel weak, I quickly wiped off my tears and looked back at my canvas. At least I have my painting. I decided to focus on the portrait I was working on tonight and not think about anything else. Painting always helped me forget. But then I catch a glance of my phone still turned off, hanging out of my purse on the coffee table. I go take it and turned it back on. I had a couple of messages and 5 missed calls. That's more that I get on a normal day. But today it was my birthday... I never found a birthday to be special or different from the days before it. But what I hated most, was the day after, when my phone was silent and I didn't exit anymore. That's why, this year I decided to turn it off and not have to speak to people I haven't heard from all year or answer questions about my life. To make things worse, it was my 30th birthday. So I was glad that at least I had avoided the jokes about me not being in my twenties anymore. I put my phone back in my purse and went to the kitchen to get the cupcake I bought for myself. I placed it on a plate, lighted the candle and went back to the studio. I sat down on the floor next to my easel and put the cupcake in front of me. Looking at all the finished paintings that were surrounding me, I felt a bit better. Then I turned my attention to the man I was painting now. He was almost finished, I was working on the final details. Being a perfectionist, I don't put the brush down until I am not completely satisfied. I trace his facial features with my eyes and think about why was he so familiar. I did not use a model or a photograph for this one. I painted freely from an image in my head. As strange as it sounds, for a second I thought the man in the painting smiled at me. Well, he's someone I would smile back to... so I did. I took the cupcake in my hands, closed my eyes and blew out the candle. Everything would be so much easier if I could paint a new life for myself, or if my paintings would come alive. I wish my paintings were real, because I am not a fan of the real world.

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