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The Artist’s Dilemma

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So you sell your soul at the tender age of twelve.

As such, it is in the wreckage of your life that you are reborn (but like the others, you come back wrong).

You carry loneliness well, like an old dusted coat. It sits uneven on your shoulders, sliding subtly as you move. Abandonment is thick in the air you breathe.

You find beautiful, engulfing red. It is young and passionate, and another tragedy. That may be, but something feels right while peace lasts.

It ends in flames and bitter betrayals. The hurt shall hurt, and the broken shall break. No one sees the battle that follows, and you limp away with tears in your eyes.

A year later you find blue and pink.

The former is eager in a way that’s rather reminiscent, and latter is much too kind for a world like this. You’ll be the death of them (or perhaps they will be that to each other, you know very well how dangerous attachment can be).

Purple warns, softly, of things that neither of you can come back from. The ring on her finger gleams much more than the light in her eyes, in some kind of unknowing irony.

Blue makes her decision, and with it comes old wounds in the form of clashing swords and spears. You clench your teeth, remembering your second lost family.

Red shrugs, as if she isn’t aching inside, but her hands tighten into fists, and Blue laughs, believing she has no right to be showing emotions.

Those two play cat and mouse, their roles ever switching, until it’s hard to tell them apart; the same stance, the same stubbornness, the same damn mistakes.

You can see history repeating, as the past and the future butt heads—waiting for the other to give in first. You know this is headed nowhere but disaster, and once again, you cannot stop it.

It ends eventually, with tears and a wicked wind that throws you all of your feet. There’s just blue, blue, all those blue remnants of a soul long gone.

You fight, you cry, you scream, but as you’re being dragged out by Purple, there’s an all-consuming crimson blaze, and you know exactly what you lost.

The three of you lay on the crossroads, no place to go, and nothing to say.

Pink, Purple, Yellow.

What lonely shades.

This is the price that you all pay.

Either damnation or self-destruction, it’s not the clearest choice, but there’s things worse than death.