Timothy's brush lightly pecked his almost-masterpiece. He was careless as he let the brush guide him to another outstanding piece. Timothy didn't need any affirmation or critique. As long as the brush guided him, he was unstoppable. As long as the brush moved on its own - he was perfect.
And - done! Timothy stepped back to admire his work. A landscape of blue and purple trees, distant mountains, rainbow skies, and... there was something off about it. But... what was it?
A knock at his door meant his food was ready. "Come in!" Timothy yelled, still looking at the painting.
His mom carried a tray of lasagna. "Done already, sweetie?" She placed it on his bedside drawer. "Beautiful..." She said, admiring the landscape.
Timothy knew she spoke the truth but still... "No..." He grabbed the canvas and with a swift motion ripped it in two. He grabbed his hair in agony, falling on his bed. "No!"
His mom pierced her lips. "Timothy, honey. You need to stop doing this..."
"You don't understand how -"
"Listen to me, mister!" Mom's voice became as stern as she would let it. "I am not throwing all this money on your talents only for your insecurities to rip apart every painting you do." She exhaled, calming herself. "You either fix your mindset, or you stop painting."
She walked out the door not waiting for his response. Timothy held his head in his hands and almost cried. Almost, because he caught himself. His mom really didn't understand, she wasn't a Creative! Se didn't know what it was like to produce and -
He sighed. Of course, she was right! Timothy saw the pile of ever-growing torn canvases decorating his bedside corner. There was something missing in his work that he couldn't put a finger to. And it was unfair to his family to live ignorantly in his hubris.
Sometimes you can't figure everything out by yourself.
"Mom." Timothy stood behind her as she angrily did the dishes. "I... I wanna talk to your friend."
She turned, shocked. "Really?" She took off her gloves and ran to hug him. "Oh, sweetie. I think he can really help you. I really do."
"Yeah." Timothy hugged her back. "I think so too."
The next day Timothy found himself sitting alone in a dusty waiting room. Timothy didn't mind it much since the walls were lined with amazing paintings. He studied them with care as he waited to be called. Which happened too soon for his liking.
"So," The bespeckled old doctor said, sitting in his fancy chair. "You are Barbra's prodigy. Your mother has said a lot about you."
"I bet she has." Timothy sat from across him, nervous and anxious. "I am still unsure about this."
The man nodded. "That's good. Tell me then 0 why do you think you are here?"
Timothy shuffled his feet. "I'm... a painter. A phenomenal painter." He sat up straighter. "But... I'm also a perfectionist."
Another nod. But the man said nothing.
Feeling uncomfortable Timothy kept on talking to fill the growing silence. "I... am unsure as to why I feel the way I do about my work. I know it's good, yet it angers me to no end."
Another nod, more silence.
"While I'm painting." Timothy was leaning in now, gesturing with his hands, eager. "I feel like I'm in a trance. Like I can do no wrong. Once the magic wears off, however..." He snapped his fingers. "I see that my trance was just that - a delusion."
"An interesting choice of words." The old man stroked his thin, graying beard. "It's a very good sign that you decided to take this first step, my boy. This is the most important one to take. Are you willing to take another?"
The phrasing of that made Timothy question everything, but he agreed all the same. He wasn't going back without producing any results.
"In that cupboard in the corner, there are all the painting supplies one could need. Why don't you make a piece for me?"
"You... paint?"
The man chuckled. "Those paintings in my waiting room are all mine. I love painting."
Really? Timothy was amazed by these paintings. He usually didn't want to show his work to other painters, since he was afraid they would still his tricks. But, something felt different about this man. Timothy was feeling something changing inside him as he set up all he needed to start painting. He was feeling, more free or more open. And also less trusting of himself.
That lack of trust faded as he started to paint. His brush sang, and he followed. Soon he forgot all about his troubles, where he was, or what he was doing. He was the brush, and the brush had only one job.
When he was done he felt the same feeling as he always did - dissatisfaction.
"Well done," Timothy found the old man standing beside him, analyzing his painting astutely. "Do you still have the feeling you were describing?"
"Yes..." Timothy answered.
"It's the sky." The man pointed.
"Pardon?" Timothy usually brushed any comments about his work aside, but today was different. And also, this man had proven his worth to Timothy with his work. "What do you mean?"
"Your choices of color do not align, son. You need more control. You see, right now you're depending on raw talent and nothing else. Sometimes we need to take a step back, and critically analyze our work. I'm talking about doing problem-solving while you are painting."
"That sounds... impossible, sir."
"I know how you feel. Truly." The man put a hand on Timothy's shoulder. "But you've already done the hardest step, son. You've swallowed your ego, at least for this instance. Allow yourself to learn, to grow."
Right then, Timothy saw that everything was in his hands. And should he choose to, he could stand still. Not move. But he also knew he was destined for greatness. And sometimes, even the greatest had to help themselves. The first step has to be done by one's self.
So Timothy stepped. "I'd be honored to be your student, sir."
Thank you for reading. 🙏 Hope you are having an amazing day! ❤️
This post is a part of Dreem-WOTW Contest S3 R2, hosted by the wonderful 
Follow me on my blog atyourservice
