Wen Art: Under the Canvas

An aesthetic plague swept across - the real painter is not the one who writes, but the one who is caught by the painting. They said I was a fake painter. Every stroke is an imitation, every painting is a "perfect copy". Until that blank sketchbook appeared in my hands - dark gray coarse cloth cover, frayed edges, yellowed paper, empty. The eccentric old man said: "The canvas is waiting for its painter." Then, the world turned into a crazy oil painting before my eyes. The streets flow into Monet's water lily ponds, and passers-by dissolve silently in the light spots. A living Baroque church rises from the ground, its spire painted with rose windows in human flesh. Later, I saw the faceless being wearing a top hat. He stood atop the ruins and gracefully took off his hat to me. He is not killing me. He is waiting for me to put pen to paper. It turns out that I had never been an audience before the first pen was written. I am the final touch that this picture of hell has been waiting for.