Painter

Everyone is perpetually dissatisfied. Well, maybe not everyone, and not perpetually, and not dissatisfied. But I was. Dissatisfaction has been with me since birth, or at least as long as I can remember. Something always seemed off to me, whether it was the noise outside the window, the ticking of a clock, or the silence when I closed the window and turned off the clock.

Because it wasn't silence! Just when I thought I'd hear it, that silence—that is, nothing—insistent sounds that hadn't existed before or were hiding somewhere in the shadows suddenly attacked me from all sides. How I disliked them! I still dislike them.

Once I turned off the clock and closed the window, when my only desire was to ignore the sounds, they appeared. No matter what I called them, how I categorized them, how I categorized them, or whatever I did with them. Whether it was my breathing, my heartbeat, or the rustling that accompanied them as my chest rose and fell helplessly against the sheets.

I thought that once I bought earplugs, my problems would disappear. So I bought them. I didn't make them myself, out of cotton wool, toilet paper, or wax—oh no! I don't settle for just anything. In fact, I don't settle for anything, because I'm a perpetually dissatisfied person. But I bought a professional tool that, according to the leaflet, would last for years.

How I hoped that I would finally fulfill that long-held dream of being able to hear nothing. Whatever, hope. I was sure of it. So I brazenly opened the window, turned on the timer, and went to bed, happy and joyful, with a smile on my face and earplugs in.

And what? Again, not quite what I wanted. When I no longer perceived the sounds of breathing and heartbeat, nor the rustle of the sheets, something appeared that I should have anticipated, but didn't. A hum. Such an internal, undefined humming in my head. Why hadn't I thought of this before?

Exactly. The point is, you can't be silent, just as you can't be satisfied. At least I couldn't, and I'd come to terms with it. I became a perpetually dissatisfied person.

And here, in turn, I encountered another problem. Once I had accepted the fact that I was dissatisfied, I felt a kind of contentment. I was glad that I was past the struggle with my thoughts and the search for satisfaction.

So you could say I was a half-satisfied person, or, if you prefer, half-dissatisfied.

The reason for my dissatisfaction was what was before me. My work. As usual, something didn't feel right. I reached for the brush, dipped it in the thick paint, and with surgical precision, aimed the spot. I guess it was better.

I set my furry friend down and watched the sunlight filter through his already colorful mane. I wondered if he was comfortable with it. Or perhaps he'd prefer a different color? I'd been tormenting him so much lately. But where was he looking? Ah... At my work. I was less dissatisfied, or if you prefer, more satisfied.

A bottle of wine sat on the table. The red color, surrounded by a glass shield and illuminated by countless rays, looked magnificent. I wondered what that drink felt like as it passed through my throat, the throat of an artist. Well, were I really sure? Am I an artist?

I'd asked myself that question many times. Sometimes I said yes, sometimes no, and so on. So you could say I was half artist, or if you prefer, half non-artist.

A small spot caught my eye. It needed to be corrected. If necessary, I corrected it. Correcting spots was my specialty. Sometimes I didn't refine something on purpose, so I could grab a brush and apply color where I'd previously left a blank space. I guess I'm an artist after all.

I applied a few more dots. Perhaps I could use a different color? What if I only worsened the effect? ​​No, better not to risk it. It's halfway good, or if you prefer, halfway bad.

I looked out the window. What a beautiful sunset... But isn't every sunset beautiful? Oh, if only I could paint it, if I could... Although, if I could, maybe I would be satisfied, and yet I'm only half-satisfied, or if you prefer, half-dissatisfied?

My work... These colors, these hues... Actually, one color and one hue, but so what? Doesn't that make it even easier to perceive? Oh, what my friend would say if he could see it. I can hear his words now. "Simple, even austere, and yet so profound."

Exactly, isn't that him? Isn't that his footsteps I hear outside the door? Yes, it's him. He came to evaluate my work, my art. Actually, it's half art, or if you prefer, half non-art, because I'm half... Never mind, everyone knows who I am.

There he is! He stands in the doorway. My friend. I see his eyes widen in surprise, and the wine bottle opens with his hand.

"What's the matter, Mietek? The brush again? Go over it with a roller, or the customer will complain again."

Those were his words. He took a swig from the bottle and set it down on the table. It was half full, or if you prefer, half empty...