Special Chapter: The Color of Perfection.
White.
The blank canvas stares back at me, a pristine void, an expanse of nothingness. It's a promise of potential, but also a taunt—a reminder that perfection is always just out of reach. My hand hovers over it, brush poised, ready to strike. I can feel the weight of the moment, the breathless anticipation before creation, when the universe holds its breath. The urge to create is a fire in my veins, consuming, relentless. I need to paint. I need to fill this emptiness with something meaningful, something perfect.
But what is perfection?
I've asked myself this question a thousand times, each one more desperate than the last. I've spent years chasing after it, driven by an obsession that gnaws at my sanity. Perfection is an idea, an ideal that I can almost grasp but never fully hold. It slips through my fingers like sand, always there but never tangible, never solid. My paintings are never perfect. There's always something missing, some flaw that I can't quite fix, some imperfection that ruins everything.
But not this time. This time, I will create something flawless, something that transcends the mundane, something that speaks to the soul. My mind races, conjuring images, concepts, ideas that flash before my eyes like the flicker of a dying flame. But nothing sticks. Nothing feels right. It's all fleeting, ephemeral, like shadows on a wall.
Then, I see it.
Red.
The color floods my mind, vibrant, bold, demanding attention. Red is the color of life, of passion, of blood. It's primal, raw, unfiltered. It's the heartbeat of existence, the pulse of the earth. I reach for the tube of paint, my fingers trembling slightly. I squeeze the crimson onto the palette, watching as it pools there, thick and rich, like freshly spilled blood. The sight of it sends a shiver down my spine, but I ignore it. This is the beginning.
The first stroke is always the hardest, and as the brush touches the canvas, it's like breaking through a barrier. The red spreads across the white, vibrant and alive, seeping into the fabric like a wound. It's a burst of energy, a declaration of intent. But as the color spreads, it begins to change. The vibrancy dulls, the life fades, and what's left is something darker, something more sinister. The red no longer feels like life; it feels like death, like a wound that festers instead of healing.
I pause, staring at the streak of red on the canvas, feeling a knot of unease forming in my stomach. This isn't what I imagined. This isn't what I wanted. The color is wrong, all wrong. But I can't stop now. I won't stop now. Perfection isn't easy. It's a struggle, a fight against every instinct, every doubt, every fear. I force my hand to move, dragging the brush across the canvas, creating harsh lines and sharp angles. The red deepens, darkens, becoming almost black in places. It's no longer a representation of life; it's a manifestation of death, of violence, of something grotesque and unholy.
I can't look away.
Black.
It's the next color I reach for, almost instinctively. It's the color of shadows, of the unknown, of everything that lurks in the dark corners of the mind. Black is finality. It's the end of all things, the absence of light, the void that consumes everything in its path. I dip the brush into the inky blackness, feeling its weight in my hand. As I bring it to the canvas, I imagine the black swallowing the red, overpowering it, consuming it. The two colors bleed together, mixing into something darker, something more dangerous.
The painting begins to take on a life of its own. The red and black twist and merge, forming shapes, patterns, but nothing that makes sense, nothing that can be easily defined. It's chaotic, disordered, a reflection of my own mind. But within the chaos, something begins to emerge, something that sends a chill down my spine.
A grin.
At first, it's just a suggestion, a hint of a shape within the swirling colors. But as I continue to paint, the grin becomes clearer, more defined. It's wide, too wide, stretching across the canvas like a slash, a wound that refuses to heal. It's not human. It's something else, something that defies explanation. The longer I stare at it, the more unsettled I become. It feels like it's staring back at me, mocking me, taunting me with its unnatural smile.
But I can't stop.
Yellow.
I reach for it in desperation, hoping to bring some light, some warmth into this nightmare I'm creating. Yellow is supposed to be a happy color, the color of sunshine, of joy, of life. But as I mix it with the red and black, it takes on a sickly hue, like the color of diseased flesh, like something rotting from the inside out. The yellow weaves through the painting, intertwining with the grin, wrapping around it like tendrils, like veins filled with something toxic.
The grin widens.
It stretches further, beyond what should be possible, twisting and contorting into something grotesque, something wrong. The yellow seeps into the black, corrupting it, twisting it into something unrecognizable. I feel a wave of nausea wash over me, but I push it down, focusing on the painting, on the colors, on the grin that won't leave my mind.
Green.
I think of nature, of growth, of life returning after the death of winter. Green is supposed to be soothing, calming, a reminder of the earth, of things that are natural and pure. But the green I create is nothing like that. It's murky, dark, like the color of a swamp, like something that's been left to decay. It spreads across the canvas, mixing with the other colors, wrapping around the grin, suffocating it. But the grin doesn't fade. It doesn't weaken. If anything, it becomes more pronounced, more vivid, standing out against the green like a beacon of despair.
The canvas is a mess of colors now, a chaotic swirl of red, black, yellow, and green, all bleeding together, all contributing to the horror that stares back at me. The grin is the only thing that remains clear, the only thing that stands out in the chaos. It's alive, somehow, pulsing with a malevolent energy that I can't explain, can't understand.
I want to stop. I want to tear the canvas down, rip it to shreds, destroy this abomination before it destroys me. But I can't. I'm trapped in its gaze, held captive by the grin, by the colors that refuse to leave my mind.
Blue.
My last hope. The color of calm, of peace, of the sky and the sea. I dip my brush into the paint, watching as the dark, deep blue spreads across the palette. It's a comforting color, a color that reminds me of still waters, of quiet moments, of tranquility. But as I bring it to the canvas, it changes. The blue isn't calm; it's oppressive. It's the color of the deepest part of the ocean, where no light can reach, where things lurk that should never be seen. The blue engulfs the other colors, drowning them, but the grin remains, floating in the darkness like a twisted smile, the only thing visible in the void.
I drop the brush.
My hands are shaking, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. The canvas before me is no longer a painting. It's something else, something alive, something that I've created but can't control. The colors swirl together, forming shapes, patterns that make no sense, that defy logic. But the grin… the grin remains. It's the only thing that stays clear, the only thing that doesn't blur, doesn't fade. It's there, in the center of the chaos, watching me, mocking me.
I step back, my legs weak, barely able to hold me up. I should destroy it. I should rip it down, burn it, erase it from existence. But I can't move. I can't look away. The grin holds me in its thrall, and I'm powerless against it.
White.
The color of nothing. The color of everything. The color of a blank canvas, waiting to be filled. But this canvas isn't blank anymore. It's filled with my madness, my obsession, my failure. The white is gone, buried beneath the layers of color, beneath the horror that I've created.
But is it really a failure?
I've always sought perfection, always chased after that elusive ideal, always believed that it was something pure, something beautiful. But what if I was wrong? What if perfection isn't beauty? What if it isn't purity or flawlessness? What if perfection is something else entirely? Something dark, something twisted, something that grins at you from the depths of your own soul?
I turn away from the canvas, but the colors remain in my mind, seared into my memory like a brand. Red, black, yellow, green, blue—each one a piece of the puzzle, each one contributing to the whole. The grin is there too, on the edge of my vision, always present, always watching.
What have I done?
I can't answer that question. I don't know if I want to. But the painting is done, and it stares back at me with that same twisted grin, taunting me, daring me to look away.
But I can't. I'm rooted to the spot, trapped in its gaze, as if the colors themselves have come alive and woven themselves around my mind. I thought I was in control. I thought I was the one holding the brush, the one guiding the colors, the one shaping the image.
But now, I'm not so sure.
What if it's the other way around? What if the colors are the ones controlling me, whispering in my ear, telling me what to paint, what to create?
What if that grin isn't just a part of the painting, but a part of me, a reflection of something buried deep within?
〔 Shimo—who are you really? Are you the artist or the creation? The master or the puppet? The sane or the mad? 〕
I don't know the answer to that either. All I know is that the painting is finished, but the questions remain, festering in my mind, gnawing at my sanity.
And the grin… the grin never fades.