I am not a work of art. I don’t have that much beauty in me to help me create one. I’ve always wanted something that might help me with my works. Whispering trees, mocking buildings, silent pavements, weary soil; everything that used to work simply drives me numb now. Being too absorbed into my works for these past few months, I failed to notice a change so near that pretty much sparked me.
Who needs trees with their leaves of wire under the smoking mid-day sun to inspire your art if your standard of beauty lies near to you?
My sweetheart had a beautiful long hair, it went under his shoulder and always managed to fall graciously like confounded summer leaves. The temperate air would sometimes brush it away from his face instead of his own two hands. My hair is short, dry, and plump. Hanging like a rope up to my chin only. One of the sole reason his hair is the thing I started to cherished the most, and had started to become my favorite object to paint. I still can see the shine glimmering strand by strand; framing his smile in a grotesque manner.
My sweetheart had a long, beautiful hair. It was a pity he did not like it as much as I did, despite taking care of it in the best way possible. I can still remember the unsettling shadow whenever he looked down and was darkened by the dim complexion of his soft raven hair. Always the peculiar inspiration to my art. He was a work of art, an original beauty.
My sweetheart had a breathtaking long hair, it had been an oblivious month or two since the last time I saw him, before isolating myself with tons of faded colors. His long hair ignited me, but gradually it tortured me, tossing me unimaginable fear for I could not paint it in its natural beauty. All I could think of was:
I might ruin beauty.
What a shame, I was filled with spirit before being frustrated all over again.
My sweetheart had a heartbreaking long hair, which he promised to cut sooner or later. My sweetheart had a melancholic long hair, a beautiful thing that led us to a mouthful argument and rough doublespeak. He shouldn’t have planned to cut it, I practically begged him to not to. I am lost within my mind, how am I supposed to continue working if the only thing that I was trying to paint went away?
I had a sweetheart who had a gorgeous long hair and I was a selfish imbecile and a stray soul.
I wouldn’t bear a single thoughts of seeing him without the dark curtains wrapping his head like the parlor of an old fortune teller.
How am I supposed to work with him?
The only things I have are these empty canvases, paint in the colors of tears, and paintbrush.
Gather your material, prepare for the bristles.
It could be made of various materials,
Horse hair, from the mane and the tail,
Or any other kind of animals with long hair,
Needle trees and grasses,
Second, prepare the handle of your brush.
bamboos, sticks from one's own yard are recommended,
For a professional look, we suggest doweling.
Next, select a strong adhesive to attach the bristle to the handle. You would have to spread the adhesive glue to the tip of the handle and attach it with the bristle.
After that, wait for the glue to dry before you carry on to the next step.
Find a strong material like metal or rope to bind the handle and the bristle together.
And there you have your home-made personal brush.
Despite making it in a rush and on a drunken heart, I pretty much loved the result.
If only you did not argue to cut your hair.
If only I could think clearly, better than this,
I could still see my sweetheart’s eloquent long hair in its most proper and beautiful form, to ignite my heart even more.
Not in the form of this ******, hellbound paintbrush I made myself in the most abhorrence manner.
I should not have gnashed your head to the tip of my easel after you told me your little desire of having a shorter hair,
I should not have been that ill-tempered, overflowing your head with warm red liquid.
My sweetheart had a beautiful long hair and a fresh thick blood.
At least I would still have the chance to work with him though I can see him no longer.
I have his soft hair attached onto my paintbrush, giving me the wildest dream,
And his blood in the color of blooming red Chrysanthemum,
It should not have happened,
But what could be better than this?