the artist and his muse

The design of the home was “open-plan.” Rooms were only separated from each other with a thin white wall that didn’t reach the entirety of the room; the staircase leading up to the second floor was glass, and the second floor was an entirely open space with a glass floor. Light burned through the windows the length of the walls, bounced from the white tiles to the mirror placed on the wall. The white leather lounge seared the skin as it’s sat on around midday. It felt as if the sun never set because of the blinding industrial lights shining through the windows throughout the night; no curtains covered the windows. The constant white burned through the retinas; the design idol, some Swedish man, who believed living in light was the key to living mindfully. When you can see all, you can be all.

The design was some sort of minimalist dream; the first few weeks of living there almost was a dream. Open space, clear air and a constant state of cleanliness. The house was always on display for the neighbourhood; at first, a novelty; later, not quite so much. A dollhouse, toys for the neighbours. The windows a gogglebox and the humans inside living out a reality TV show. Or simply living out reality.

Watching her move like an ethereal object through the rooms; always moving in an almost magical way, far more than human. Sitting at her piano, music floating through the air as her eyes are closed, ensconced in the music. A sight for sore eyes, putting on a show.

Her beautiful long, blonde hair flowing as he twirls her around the room, the infectious laughter as her smile lights up the room even more. Their naked bodies entwined, twisted in an embrace with such ferocious loving. Left limp, tired, as if their master was bored of them and moved on to the next doll house.

The screaming matches, him turning from a tall, dark, handsome man to something evil; something not quite human. Watching her being thrown into the wall. No where for her to run in the beautiful, minimal open-space designed house. No one intervening or reporting when they watched her bleach the tiles, cleaning bright red off the floor. The contrast of the red against the bright white was almost like an intentional painting; the man, the artist.

He truly was an artist; the onlookers watched him at work. At the red against the wall, the movements in his body; the way he could make her move for him, like a puppet. She, his canvas. Purple and blue snaked across her skin, like resin art. At every hour, every day, forever at work and always a play.

Audience entranced by the display, as if the open-plan; minimalistic; artistic; “home” was planted for them, the spotlight focused on the artist and his muse.

When you can see all, you can be all.

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