/lit/ - Literature

I sometimes wonder what their thoughts are, and what their troubles are, and what their past consisted of, and what they think their future might be; as if all those worries of mine weren’t enough…” he awaited her response, but all he received was tearful eyes filled to the brim, and a lovely smile. He pondered on what the word lovely meant to him, he thought lovely was a useful word since no one really referred to someone with that word, he thought it was unique, as he thought of her and how she looked sad and happy and lovely. He thought of saying something, but nothing could really fix what was wrong, and everything was just right, nothing even needed fixing. He was reminded of his own troubles, his eyelids carried the load that burdened him the whole week before, and he let them flow, one by one at first, then all at once. The two of them looked out upon the sea and watched where it changed color and where the seaweed made it look as though mysteries had made the dark their dwelling, they watched as the grass bent its back and returned to its upright position shortly afterward, they watched as the blues of the water and the sky became indistinct.

“‘I know someday you’ll have a beautiful life, I know you’ll be a star, in somebody else’s sky, but why, why, why, can’t it be, can’t it be mine?’” he whispered as her footsteps became fainter and fainter, out of reach, she left him there, the last thing her face wore was a smile painted by a great artist on fresh canvas, he took solace in that thought.

end short story.

I used to think it was Joseph Mallord and William Turner, and that they were collaborators.
I was an idiot as a teenager.

>>3067555
So we've established that the only thing that separates my 'art' from someone like Rothko's is that people buy his. Thank you.

Now what about something like pic related? How do my MS Paint scribbles compare?