He woke up with same deadness, his consciousness repelled the effulgence. He opened his eyes strenuously and saw lifeless semi-darkness in his room. He did not like radiance but he was also not in appeasement with dark. Darkness compelled him to die, darkness itself was a half death and death imprisoned him in consternation, he awed death.

He lay on his bed thinking, that he will complete his creations now but like always, his conviction had immersed into abulia .Vague uneasiness took him every morning every day. He thought that he was apathetic towards his creations but he did not know that he feared cessation and wholeness of things ceased them. Integrity made things perfect and he abhorred precision. He was obsessed with the irregularity of things. He got out of his bed lit a cigarette, seated on chair, in front of canvas and contemplated it with stupor in his eyes .Shapeless smoke came out of his withered lips and evaluated his analgesia with it. He had been an artist to whom everything seemed a dilapidation except his art and nicotinism; for he had never acquired anything besides these two, never coveted to pursue anything except these two because procurement of things filled him with ennui.

His eyes on his empty canvas, his glare still. He moved his eyes  on his paintings, most of them incomplete, few of them smudged with filth .He stood , begin to observe his brushes ,he took his palate absterged it by his hands and begin to pour colours and again begin to watch the empty the canvas .He stood there motionless for minutes not knowing what he was thinking and anoesis over lapped him and he dropped the palate on table, thrown himself on chair ,began to lit another cigarette .This time he smoked with great recklessness as though he will be incapacitated if he would not smoke. He felt that smoke of cigarette had averted him from pre deceasing.

He thought to capture the smoke, to infuse it with colours and to paint them on canvas which he was not capable to do. Why? he did not know .Nevertheless he felt that there was a void inside him, there was a void he did not comprehend ,there was a void creating the environs between him and his art , there was a void his art did not conciliated with. Certain vacillation accompanied his artistic nature or it was his inconclusiveness which was his vanquishment in his art but he just became fathomless with his creations and when you go in profundity of your own art you become absurd and absurdity is not defeat, it’s a phase of inertia.

Perpetualism of smoke obscured his existence in room. He sat ombutescent there. He tapped the half smoked cigarette in the ashtray ,rolled it twice so that ash of cigarette should merge with smoulder in ashtray begin to stare at that ashes of cigarette he thought that is what left behind when whole existence gets consumed whether its cigarette or self.

Nothing was perturbing him more at the moment then to rejuvenize hisself with certitude which was extinguishing out of him or perhaps had extinguished a long ago. He again took his plate, soaked his brush in colours started to make parallel lines abstractly and abruptly and again something stooped him, something like ‘nothingness’ he stood inert with his art and  emptiness . Deadly silence invaded his whole soul, he abandoned his colours and once again lit that half smoked cigarette, begin to smoke with impetuosity. He smoked until his breath collapsed with smoke and he saw annhelation enlarging in his lungs .He coughed and whole room filled with his discombobulation reverberated his voice.

He collapsed on chair and lay his head on back of chair as someone exhausted from life long diligence, as someone utterly irked by langour and boredom, as someone engulfed by his own insensibilities, as someone who had been tormented by his incapability to understand his being , as someone who had not known yet that he had lost the sense of time and perceptions which circulate in it. He had not apprehended the fact that though he awed death but he was pre occupied by lifelessness, it was life he lacked, it was life he spurned.

He lay there, on his chair still with a cigarette in his hand and his thoughts drenched in remorselessness that perhaps he never procured his art. He lay there with his self suffused with ambiguity and he lay there with his nicotinism and nothingness.

 

By: Saba Zain