He sat quietly with his hand trembling slightly against the paper on the desk. He had drawn beautiful, magnificent masterpieces and yet he could not write a simple note for his life. Pictures came out so crystal clear but words could not.
“What is a great life if it is not recorded?” He asked himself.
He knew that he couldn’t hold on much longer. He had been wanting to die for so long and now he finally had the means he wanted. He had the pills in a little box in the drawer under his bed. he was going to look so peaceful and serene lying underneath his covers.
But what good was all this if no one knew? If everyone went on just believing he was good at capturing moments and not the torture and effort behind the paintings? He had spent so long by himself everyone thought of him as mysterious and tried to figure him out, but they couldn’t. Everything written about him so far was wrong. This memoir was the only way to make it right before he left the earth.
And he couldn’t even pick a color to write it in.