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Is This the Life?
she took another sip at her drink.
she didn't really care what liquour it was...
as long as it made her warm.
this apartment was really getting to her.
she could feel the rotting wood underneath her stocking feet;
she could hear the chewing of rats within the walls.
what did she live for?, she often asked herself.
stacks of drawings stared back at her.
so this what it is to be a starving artist, eh? she asked in a whisper.
she drew her knobby knees up to her flat chest and drew in a deep breath.
artist's block.
she was too frozen, too hungry, and too tired of living to draw anymore.
she stood suddenly, throwing open the dingy drapes at the window.
the sun blinded her.
when was the last time she took a stroll in the park?
too busy working in her tiny apartment to peek into the outside world.
too stressed to inhale fresh air.
hoho, the irony of being a cooped up artist.
weren't they supposed to let the imagination fly?
ha.
another sigh.
how old was she now?
twenty-three years and two months.
seemed a lifetime, as she looked down at muscly multi-coloured chalky hands.
her eyes had adjusted.
now, she pushed her fingers under the windowsill crack and pulled and tugged.
no response from the window.
it was useless.
and this artist was hopeless.
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