A Story from the Little Artist

Once upon a time, there lived a little artist. She lived in a majestic world with sparkling lights, large birds that would carry passengers across the skies, and magic that could do anything, from controlling day and night within buildings with light switches, to running water that came at the turn of a knob, to large screens that flashed vivid images after images. 

This world was full of all sorts of wonders, but the little artist was quite used to it. She preferred to ignore all the spectacular sights in front of her and looked within her own imagination instead. 

What if the sky was a magnificent sunset pink all day long? What if the stars fell from the sky for her to catch and to keep in little silk pouches? What if amongst the humans that walked these lands, there were fairies; there were magical beasts; there were spirits? 

She lived in this world, cradled with her imagination, under the supervision of her parents. In this world, each family could only have one child, so although she thought that her parents loved her, at one point in time, she came to realize that they would've preferred a son. 

Thus, the little artist grew up under the shadow of knowing that if she was just a different person, her parents would've loved her more. 

But this didn't matter to her. She was fine with what she had, and never asked for more. The little artist was happy, for the most part. 

Years later, when the world passed a consensus that two children would be allowed per family, that was when they had the son they'd always wanted. The new addition of this boy did mean that the little artist would be neglected, and though she had feelings of jealousy at times, she loved him too, just as much as everyone else. She had always wanted to experience the role of an older sister. 

Happy moments couldn't last long. 

One day, a wave decided to sweep the boy away. And so, the little artist was alone once more. 

This was a new type of loneliness. It was not like before her baby brother came to exist, where she would pass her time alone, thinking of new ideas and scribbling with colors. This loneliness was more like the kind where she felt utterly isolated. Her parents neglected her before, except now, the little artist came to the realization that their silence meant that they might have hated her. 

The reason for why the boy was swept away was her, after all. 

The little artist spent more time drowning in her imagination now, letting her ideas take her away from this solitude she was in. She let the tools in her hands take her off into a brighter world of make-believe, where she could paint worlds filled with colors, loving parents, and her brother, no longer lost within the waves. 

Time went on. The little artist grew older and older, until it was time for her to choose her future. Her parents, though they seemed almost close to strangers now, told her that if she would ever do one thing to make them happy, it would be to choose herself a practical future through going to a more practical school. 

Part of the little artist did want to follow the words of those near-strangers, but part of her didn't. She told herself that if she listened and gained success for herself, they could love her again. Another part told herself that if she didn't listen and chose the path that would make her happier, she wouldn't even need their broken love. She only needed herself, and her own happiness. 

That was how the little artist chose to continue being an artist. 

Time passed on, years went by, and the little artist slowly found her life spiraling more and more out of control. She thought she would be happier on this path of joy, but she wasn't. And she couldn't understand why. 

She painted. She painted, painted, and painted some more. She tried to sort through all her messy thoughts by dumping them on a canvas. 

It didn't work. 

Bit by bit, the mundane things in the world were beginning to weigh the little artist down. They drained at her imagination, pulling her further away from her dreams and replacing all of those lost pieces with bottles of alcohol. She became blinded by her exaggerated goals and stubborn arrogance. 

Just like how the little artist's brother was carried over by a wave, the little artist was now being drowned by a wave of self-pity and self-hatred. Just like how the blinding lights of mankind buried the grandeur of the stars, the little artist lost her sight on the stars as well. 

The end. 

…

"That's it?" 

Zixu's eyebrows knitted together. He looked at her with pure disbelief.

"That's it," Yujia repeated with affirmation. "That's the story I wanted to tell you."

"I expected this to be some revolutionary life story. I didn't expect to get this depressing fairytale."

Yujia shrugged. "I was in the mood to tell it. You were the one who chose to listen to it."

"That was a pathetic ending, whether you admit it or not." He folded his hands together, then continued, "What happened to the little artist? What about her parents? These people are the most static ones I've ever met. Years had passed in the timeline, but none of them ever developed in any positive manner. The artist went from having some almost non-existent positivity to hating herself. The parents went from neglecting their child to hating their child. And once they got to the worst mindset they could be at, they stayed there, never developing, improving, or adjusting themselves the slightest. If that's not what you call a pathetic ending, and pathetic story in general, I don't know what is."

Yujia scrunched her face up. She knew that she told Zixu this story as a more fictional work— how would he believe her if she said she transmigrated?— but it was still pretty harsh to hear her life called pathetic. Honesty was brutal. 

"Fine," she obliged, "do you want to hear the actual ending to the story?"

…

Then, one day, life decided to take pity on the little artist and decided to give her a new chance. So the little artist was reborn in another identity, and had the ability to restart her life with a new and better mindset.

The end. 

…

"That's still a pathetic ending. It was the easy way out. She didn't have to personally pick up the courage and determination to change her mental state, but instead got all of it delivered in a new start," Zixu pointed out.

Yujia rolled her eyes and sighed deeply. "Gee, you seem to have so many issues with my story. Must you complain so much? And how do you know that the artist didn't face any struggles in this new life as well?"

Zixu was the one to shrug this time. "It's easy to face new problems when you can just ignore your old ones. Regardless of what you say, I'm convinced that this character needs to help herself. An identity change, a new life, will only encourage her to ignore her problems. She needs to face the past, move forward, and to stop running away from it."

With her expression falling flat, Yujia leaned back into the grass and stared back at the sky and the stars. 

"Okay then. You do you," she grumbled. "I just wanted to tell the story because I thought about the stars."

She couldn't see him, but she imagined him smiling, perhaps in an amused manner. He replied to her in a tone as light as air, "Then, goodnight."