He lay in his bed motionless, head turned slightly to his right, with eyes fixated on a lone framed painting. It was fifteen years ago when he made it in grade school. His family embodied in water colors, that's all it was. A faded gold star was peeling off on the top right corner; it used to mean he was the best. Out of a class of twenty-six children, that single piece meant he was the best. So naturally, he believed it.

His professors labeled his work as generic, average... mediocre. Regardless, he followed this path for fifteen years. Nothing he made ever sold for much when they did. He made more money standing behind a counter and mashing on a cash register. Why did he continue? What was the point? He wasn't talented.

Hard work, perseverance, and determination were supposed to lead to success but not for him. Every seminar that was held, every workshop, every opportunity he had to improve, he tried it. Still, he just didn't.

The apartment was small, even for urban standards. There was one bedroom that could barely hold a desk and a twin bed. The bathroom consisted of a toilet, sink, and shower, all within 6 inches of each other. The kitchen had a leaky faucet and a stove and fridge that appeared to have been made in the 40s. His dining table could seat one, and even then, his drink had to be on the floor. The living room was, at best, six by six feet without the clutter of his paintings and books. This miserable little apartment was what he could afford. He had little prospect for ever leaving it.

The only possession he held dear was his second-hand easel that had rotten wood and rusty joints. He saved every penny he could for a month just to afford it. Most of his supplies were stolen from school. It was a delicate practice of taking half empty tubes of paint or discarded brushes whenever no one was looking. The only thing he couldn't manage to steal were canvases. They were too bulky even for the baggiest of pants. His rent was broken down to rent, utilities, food, and canvases.

Classmates used to ask him to tag along to the local pub, a frivolity he could not afford. He had friends. People talked to him. They just never bothered to notice who he really was. No one ever asked him, "are you feeling alright?" or "what's the matter?". Maybe he needed that now.

He turned over in his bed, knocking off his sheets. The paint on the wall had been peeled to the base layer; he chipped at it for months. The first signs of sun light were just barely breaking in through his windows. He got up and shuffled over to the bathroom.

There was never any inspiration anymore. He never had an image in his head, so he would paint whatever he could see out of his window. But now, there was nothing new to look at. The canvas had one stroke of red on it; there were traces of blue from his dirty paint brush.

He sighed, "What's the point?" and went back to bed.