do or die ~ open

Inspiration. Something, such as a sudden creative act or idea, that is inspired. And something that Alistair was missing. With a crafty look around him, he lit up yet another cigarette. He'd been sat outside for just over fifteen minutes. Perhaps half an hour. He wasn't really sure. It was cold, but refreshing. The sky was clear, at the very least, and the reflection of the sun bouncing off the surface of the lake was nice. Pretty, even. But somehow not inspiring in the least.

Inhaling deeply his dark eyes followed the trail of smoke that he expelled, watching its twisting, meandering form disappear into nothingness. 'Just like I will, if I can't start drawing again...' Frustrated with himself, as well as with the world for not offering up some kind of incentive to compensate for his prolonged sobriety, Alistair cursed furiously under his breath. It just wasn't fair. It had been nearing two weeks since he'd last had a drink, and a week since he'd last had a joint. The cigarettes were all that was keeping him going, but even they were starting to loose their appeal. What was the point in being sober if he couldn't paint when he was?

It was a vicious circle. Either he got himself inebriated, created something marvellous and risked getting kicked out of school in the progress or he stayed sober, played by the rules and they kicked him out because he was failing. Of course, Alistair didn't really believe that he would ever fail a class. He could still draw, after all, it's just that nothing he did was particularly good. Still life was so boring, and portraits were a no-go as he didn't have a model.

Flicking away the finished cigarette butt, Alistair stared hopelessly out over the lake, shifting slightly in his seat. He was leaning up against a tree at the edge of the wood, not far from the waters icy edge. A raggedy tartan blanket protected him from the damp forest floor while a leather jacket placed over his favourite black hoody saved him from the cold. Dragging his eyes away from the murky water and back to the empty sketchbook page that sat in his lap he picked up his pencil, drummed it for a while against the empty pad, dropped it, and lit up yet another cigarette. Alistair's mother had always told him routine was important. Unfortunately for him, this probably wasn't the type of routine she'd been alluding to.