Moon down, sun up. 

I don’t know how long I’ve been awake or how many cups of coffee I’ve had. Light breaks through my curtains as I gaze at the clutter on my dorm room floor. 

Paintbrushes, papers, palettes.

I take an awkward step to try and avoid the mess but end up knocking over a bottle of blue paint. The color dumps out onto the polished concrete floors. I bend over, grab the bottle and close the cap before setting it aside. I stare at the puddle for a moment, then dip my paintbrush in and get back to work.

I try to put my feelings forward. I’m not very good at knowing what I’m feeling, though. 

I make my best art when I’m alone. That’s why I coop myself up in this cinder block jail cell all day. The building where most of my classes are held has a drawing porch on the third level that most painters use, but I can’t get into it. I hate the feeling of people looking over my shoulder. It’s claustrophobic. 

I dab my brush in the floor paint and fill the spots on my paper that seem lacking. This still isn’t even close to being finished.

I should probably shower at some point. My hands are a mess of colors, and my clothes are no better. After a few more minutes, my stomach starts gurgling. I need to eat. Coffee’s so much less satisfying when it’s the only thing in your stomach.

I consider cleaning up my floor but ultimately decide it doesn’t matter. It’s not like I’m having people over anyway. 

I put on a pair of slippers and shuffle down the hall, making my way to the stairwell and down a few flights. I’m lucky to live in a building with a café on the first floor. Now that the city is buried in snow, I don’t have to go out for anything other than class.

Moving to the middle of the country to attend the Minneapolis Academy of Art was an uncomfortable change of pace from what I was used to. The first winter here was rough, but hey, I learned what it feels like to have my nostrils freeze the moment I step outside! 

I reach the bottom of the staircase, turn a corner, and head to the central part of the building. I usually avoid the student lounge because I feel like people watch me. It’s an ample, open space that’s stupidly bright, thanks to a string of floor-to-ceiling windows. On the opposite side, there’s the entrance to the café. I head inside and am met with packed tables of students chattering loudly.  

This makes me sound lame as hell, but I haven’t made any friends yet. I’m in my second year, and all I have are acquaintances. I feel like I should have gotten somewhere by now with all the people I’ve met. None of them interest me, though, and I certainly don’t seem to interest them. Maybe it’s my inability to hold a conversation. 

I find the back of the line and try not to take up too much space. I haven’t figured out what I want yet, but that’s okay because I know I’ll be waiting here for a long time. The guy who works the cash register on weekends is chatty, and he asks a lot of questions. He must enjoy getting to know the students who attend school here, but I just want my drink and to be left alone.

I scan the pastry case to see if there’s anything I can eat, which there isn’t. How shocking. Instead, I pick out a couple of oranges that do their best to roll off the counter as soon as I set them down.

“Hey, Rudolf,” the cashier greets me with a nod. “Anything else for you?”

“Coffee,” I grumble.

He doesn’t bother asking if I want room for cream because he already knows I don’t. It’s surprising how much he manages to keep track of, considering I can’t even remember his name.

I gather my purchase while he fills a cup for me and sets it on the counter. “So, what’s up with you?” he asks while I fumble for my wallet.

“Um, nothing…” I say with the hope that it will keep him from asking anything else.

“That’s too bad,” he takes my card from me and rings it through. “None of your classes speaking to ya?”

I shrug.

After returning my card, he passes the coffee off and tells me to have a good day in that peppy customer service voice. I mumble a curt thank you and then debate on whether or not I want to try and sit here. 

I quickly decide that I don’t. It’s loud and crowded, and I don’t want to be around this many people. So, I retrace my steps, heading up the stairs and back to my room. 

Inside, I'm careful not to knock anything over. I kick off my slippers and sit in the center of my bed, peeling the oranges and sipping my drink. I should probably force myself to have some water, but I feel like I’m crashing right now. I need caffeine to stay awake for the rest of the day. 

I shouldn’t have pulled an all-nighter, but I didn’t feel like stopping. When inspiration strikes, it’s good for me to go with it. It’s hard to quit once I get started, and if I force myself, the inspiration is gone the next time I pick up a paintbrush.

When my coffee starts to get cold, and I feel recharged, I toss the cup in the trash and turn back to my project from earlier. The paint on the floor is crusted over, so I squeeze what’s left of the bottle onto my palette. 

I pull out my flat brush and start applying the color broadly. I make long, sweeping strokes with the bristles. The colors go on smooth and deep.

I hope I don’t just fucking hate this when I’m done. There’s nothing worse than putting hours of work into something only to realize that it’s not what you wanted it to be. I can’t let myself think about that, though. I can’t allow myself to stop. I want to finish. 

If it’s what I want it to be in the end, I’ll let myself relax. I’ll clean. I’ll tidy up the tornado of art supplies that hit my room. I’ll chip that blue stain off the floor. I’ll drink a bottle of water. I’ll eat something else. I’ll take a shower. I’ll go to bed tonight. 

This stupid thing isn’t even for an assignment. I started painting because I felt like it, and now I’m stuck. I drive my instructors insane because I can never get anything in on time, and I’m always painting crap that doesn’t fit the rubric. The rules aren’t even that strict, but I still can’t make it happen. The professors aren’t exactly understanding, either. Half of art school seems to be learning to meet a deadline, and I have no idea how to keep up. I get way too invested in my own ideas.

I feel like college might not be the place for a person like me. I lack structure, but I’m still trying to push through. Ideally, I’d like to make this work. I don’t want to waste my money. It’s not like I have the cash to spar, but I still don’t have a plan. I should have come to school with a goal in mind, but I didn’t. I have no idea what I want to do with my degree. What can a person do with a degree in art? Not much, unless they get lucky, maybe.

I keep painting and at some point switch to a round-tip. Faintly outlining a figure in the center, I get a better idea of where this is going. The head blends seamlessly with the swirl of blue around the rest of the page. 

When I feel comfortable with how it’s turned out, I add a second figure over top whose neck meets another streak of color. 

Eventually, I’m satisfied. As satisfied as I can be, at least. There’s a chance I’ll wake up tomorrow hating everything about what I created, paint over it or throw it in the trash. But for now, I screw the caps back on the paint tubes and set them aside. 

I cross the room and grab a crumpled towel from the floor near my desk. It’s still a little damp because I never hung it up. Slinging the towel over my shoulder, I gather my palette and brushes and carry them down the hall to the bathroom. 

Nobody’s in there, thank god. I grab my shower caddy from its cubby and take the stall in the back, setting my supplies down on the tile by the drain. I pull the curtain closed and get undressed, doing my best to catapult my clothing to the bench on the other side of the room. My shirt doesn’t quite make it, but whatever. I’ll pick it up later.

I turn the water on and aim it at my palette. Everything turns a deep blue, including my feet. I only use acrylic when it’s up to me, so this will come off easily. 

When I’m done, I grab a toothbrush out of my caddy along with a bottle of soap and pick my brushes up off the floor. I pour soap over the bristles and press the brush heads into the wall, scraping them with the toothbrush. I repeat three or four times and then toss the brushes aside, finally lathering myself up. 

Sometimes I forget how nice it feels to shower. It always seems like such a chore until you step under the water. I could get lost in it. 

I duck my head under the nozzle and rinse away the suds. I spend a few minutes just standing still. It’s warm. I miss the heat. It’s always so cold here, even inside. I hate it. There’s nothing worse than the feeling of the wind blowing straight through your clothing.

When the water turns lukewarm, I turn off the tap and dry off before gathering all of my shit in my arms. There’s a bit of paint left on the shower walls, but I ignore it. The cleaning staff must hate me. Hah. I should probably feel guiltier than I do, but I pay so much to attend this damn school.

I pick my clothes up off the bench and throw them back on. My shirt is wet. Nasty.

I head back to my room and drape my towel over a chair, setting my brushes down. Then I glance at the dried paint on the floor. Instead of trying to scrape it up, I use my foot to move a scrap of paper over a couple of inches and cover it. 

Good enough.

I turn off the lights and immediately climb over the footboard of my bed. Navigating my room in the dark is impossible. I know I’d end up stepping on something, so best not to risk it.

I’m tired. Exhausted. I’m only now realizing it. 

I flop down face first and then roll onto my side, closing my eyes. It will feel good to finally sleep.