Tina Battles Creative Demons

"Demons Emerging"

Oil painting

The following story is my attempt at a fiction piece.

Tina sat brooding in her writer’s chair, an old-fashioned rocker with an afghan tossed over its back. She rocked to and fro, hoping to quell the anxiety she felt about writing. Her latest assortment of words on page had conjured up all kinds of bad memories.
Her hopelessness about her creative self increased by the moment. She had hoped that writing about fantasies would inspire her to pursue a dream of writing chidren’s books. Instead, her latest piece about worms and paintbrushes and otherworldly images had spiraled her down into the depths of depression.
“It’s doing the same thing”, she thought dejectedly. She had stopped painting about a year ago when martians and other wierd-looking creatures flanked by bones and fire flames had begun surfacing on her canvases. Paint colors of blood reds and ghostly blues dominated her palette. A force beyond herself seemed to relish seeing her paintbrush filled with them. She used to wail, “This is not me, I am a good girl”, and stare horrified at the finished product before her. She had thought she had gotten over the traumatic chaos of childhood she had grown up in, and could meditate and take long walks in nature without incidents of darkness filling her mind. Instead, demons and other dark creatures became a common occurence in her life, residing on her canvases, grinning at her in ways that conjured up nightmares.

Tina grimaced. She had hoped to get all this dark stuff out from within herself so that the lighter side of her would emerge. And yet, the rainbows, unicorns and flower gardens could not peacefully reside on paper but had to continue to do battle with the snakes and devils and other dark shadows that continued to clamor for attention.
“I want magic, I want mystery, I want the good in life to come through me", she whispered into the darkening realms of the room she was in. The candles on the table nearby sent flickering shadows onto the walls, some almost sinister in their shapes. She rocked faster in her chair, hoping the creaking sounds would somehow drive her endless thoughts of despair into oblivion. Smells of paint filled her nostrils, mixed with the vanilla and cinnamon scents that the candles encircling her were giving off. Tina stared at the tubes of paint laying on a small table nearby. Some of them had become hardened with disuse, and their caps could not even be forced open. Pencils and discarded journals thrown haphazardly about littered the floor.
“It’s the demons again,” as she clenched her teeth. “They are the cause of my demise into a life of meaningless crap. Without my passion of creativity to fuel me, I am nothing. I might as well end my life now."
Tina had tried so, so hard to conquer these dark shadows. If a painting had conjured up too many painful memories, she had resorted to photography to lighten her mood up. But photography was too easy and seemed to linger at the surface of her being. Tina wanted to go deeper into her inner recesses, traversing into uncharted waters. But the pain there, then the ultimate nightmares, painting opened up her doors, but the memories..... Now writing, something that could transport her to a lighter way of being, was becoming a thing to be feared. Words written, with a life of their own, grabbed at her throat, choking her with their relentless pursuit. Would she have to give up all her beloved creative mediums in order to maintain her sanity?

Tina signed and grabbed the afghan from behind her. Its soft warmth comforted her, sending a sense of nurturing throughout her. She didn’t have a man to reach over to, to hug in the night. And being so truly alone here night after night was wrecking havoc on her. Tina thought that pursuing some art classs might fill up the void she was feeling and chase away some of the darkness that always invaded her. Choosing to give up her art classes for a year had been a tough decision, she mused, lost in thought. But it had been the right thing, all in all.
To run from these feelings within her, to mindlessly merge with fellow artists, get entangled with who they were, a temporary respite, but that was all it had been. Tina rocked faster and harder in her chair, hoping the intensified motion would quell her anxious brooding.
She glanced at the clock nearby on the dusty nightstand. 1:00 am, the large digital numbers screamed at her. Her eyelids drooped wearily, but sleep would only invite those nightmares again, and she would wake up gasping for air. Ah, well, perhaps painting would soothe her, rock her into peace. It had been a while since the fiendish figures had loomed out of her canvas, so perhaps, in these early morning hours, she could create with a fresh start. She rose slowly from the chair, walked across the wooden floor and stared at the white canvas. With trembling hands, she armed herself with a paintbrush, took a deep breath and faced what had now become her enemy, the canvas before her.