The canvas is perfect...

The record wobbled in my hand as I carefully placed it on the gramophone and placed the needle gently on the turning record. The violins were quietly playing as I moved to check on the silverware, they needed to be as clean as possible, I despise it when my silverware has any fingerprint marks or has the slightest blemish and I will not allow it when I have guests over for dinner. 

I could breathe in the music as the choir sang the profoundly passionate lyrics, the Latin language is beautiful and I always feel saddened whenever I meet someone who does not know the fine art of it. I hate it when people are ignorant of fine arts, their brains are filled with too much pop culture these days and I sometimes feel obligated to fix it. 

However, there is an art that can only be described as beautiful. There are many men and women who say that it is not art, but a barbaric form of my psychotic nature and yet people would have said the same thing about Picasso in his days. It is not that I am mentally instable – I think my mind is very much capable of knowing what is right and what is wrong – it is just that people nowadays have lost the eye for art. 

It is sad in a way. However, I love being special, it is such a joy to be recognised by my work and to have my name printed in all of the newspapers. 

No one knows who I am though, which is quite a shame. However, to keep my identity a secret would be wise of me; they are always looking for me. I can smell them when they are near and I try my hardest to refrain myself and yet I seem to always take out my anger the same way. 

Playing Mozart keeps me calm, it clears my mind and gives me this power to create a piece of art that is beautiful and profound, which is sometimes a challenge when the canvas that I work on is dull. However, Mozart makes it possible and I cannot help but felt this eternal gratitude towards the composer.

I must admit and mind you it is quite embarrassing to say, but I have this undying crush on Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart and sometimes I fantasize about him. For a man to create such beautiful compositions, to create such beautiful music must be an angel from the divine. Sometimes I feel quite depressed that I was not born in the seventeen hundreds, I know that he would have loved me like no other. 

But a shame that he lived in times when our relationship would have been frowned upon, even killed for and I often wonder what sort of man he would be if he was born nowadays. Situations like that often bring up questions such as whether or not he would create his music. 

Although, I guess the questions would be the same for me about my art. 

The canvas today is perfect, not a blemish on its skin and it has this beautiful softness to it. I knew I had chosen the right one when I smelt it that day in the park, the sweat and the touch of deodorant that was so much more fragrant than the others. 

“I want to be art.” It spoke, the grace in its voice made my spine shiver and I took pride in the choice that I had made. However, as I looked at its face I was mortified to see that it was leaking again, the eyes had become red and the mascara was running again.

I find it incredibly annoying when that happens, I suppose the divine music of Mozart affects them as it does to me, still, I would appreciate my canvases more if they did not scream and curse as much as they do. It is ungraceful to act in such a way and I sometimes pity them for their lack of gentleness and composure. 

Society it seems has gone downhill. 

“Please, let me go and I promise I won’t press charges.” It cried and sputtered, ruining the foundation and blush that I had so carefully applied this morning. 

I know that I must not get angry at them, they do not know any better and I suppose they are afraid of adding new information in their pitiful brains. However, I despise them when they ruin my work that I have worked so hard for and I cannot help but just teach them lessons. Although, if I teach this one a lesson, then it would be ruined, a blemish would appear in a couple of hours and I would have to wait for a few more days until it would be gone completely. 

My art takes time to perfect and time is a precious gift that I cannot receive. 

“If I let you go then you cannot be a part of my art collection and you know how the public love my art.” I reasoned with it, however, it seemed to not listen, instead it carried on crying and I found no need to try and reason with it any longer. I just need to finish the canvas off and I will be able to show it to the public in two days. 

Wiping the silver scalpel for a final time I gently tore through the canvas, it seemed to scream in an orgasm and I felt instantly happy that I had chosen this particular one. The screams and the music from Mozart had me excited; I tore through the skin, creating beautiful patterns that I know my fans would love to see and in a matter of moments I was in my divine moment of peace.

The End

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