Sayuri. A painting that would never fail to hold a high place in the heart of Yusuke. As soon as he had seen it, as a mere child, his heart had grown an attachment. A strong attachment, strong enough to want to make him get into the field of art. The tranquil expression that the woman in the painting had as she gazed at the mist, the overall way the strokes of paint fit on the canvas… there was something else, but Yusuke had never quite figured out what it was. All he knew, was that he was extremely attached to this piece of art in particular. But whatever it was, he felt as though he had a debt to it. After all, that feeling was what sparked his passion.
It was his duty to repay that.
But nothing was satisfactory. He kept painting, though. Hoping that, one day, he would create something that was good. Something that he considered to be of proper quality. No, he would never try to recapture the beauty of Sayuri, he knew that he didn't have the potential to. But to be able to create something that could have the same effect that Sayuri had… there was potential, wasn't there? So he tried. He would work until his body would physically stop him. Food? What did he need that for? It wasn't as if it could inspire him to do good work, and it only distracted him. Sleep? A waste of time. He didn't need it, he didn't believe he did, it only made his progress slow down. So he neglected it, no matter the consequences. All he needed was silence, a canvas, an easel, paints, and a paintbrush. Nothing more, nothing less.
However, although he had the proper ingredients, it was as if he was following the wrong recipe, every time. He would stare at the work he did. While people, around him, would offer compliments, he never believed them. So he threw the old work away, disgusted at how… awful, it was. He expected this artist's block to vanish quickly, but it didn't. Nothing he did gave him the same feeling that Sayuri had given him. Nothing. Now. Yusuke was a very patient person. It was hard for him to get enraged, or frustrated. So for these paintings to slowly be chipping away at him, it was… aggravating. Slowly, but surely, that patient exterior was going down.
But he couldn't give up. That would be an idiotic reason. A babyish reason to quit. It would be as though he was throwing a temper tantrum, and that was unacceptable.
What time was it now? It had to be past midnight, he guessed. He rubbed his eyes, blinking slowly at the work he had so far. A few strokes of blue, green, a bit of red for contrast. He didn't know what it was. All it was, was meaningless, sloppy, and messy work. He didn't really do anything about it, if only for a few moments. He just stared at it, trying to see where he had been going with it. Was he trying to create peace? No, the red would not be there if that were the case. But it wasn't something chaotic, either, from the use of the cool colours. So what was it? His fists clenched, as he tossed the brush aside. Deep breaths, deep breaths. He remembered to take them. But they added onto his building frustration. He stood up, pacing across the room. There had to be something he was missing. Something.
Damn if he knew what it was. A mix of sleep deprivation, artists block, dehydration, hunger, and built up anger finally took the reins. He slowly sank to the floor, trying to keep his emotions in check the best he could. However, that didn't prevent the nails that were now raking against the sides of his face. The urge to just start sobbing out of pure shame. He was an artist, yet over the course of a week, he had accomplished nothing. All he was accomplishing, was wasting paint. Wasting paper, wasting canvases. That was all it felt like he was doing. He curled in on himself, the deep breaths he had been taking becoming quicker, and more shallow. Were those tears in his eyes? He forcefully wiped them away, not noticing that there was, suddenly, a bit of blood staining the tips of his fingers. As if he didn't have enough colours on them.
He curled up more, as if he could simply ease this tension by curling into a ball. As if he could relieve the mass amounts of frustration that had been building over the week. He wanted to cry. But he didn't. Crying solved nothing. He tried to get back up, to continue his work, but when he looked at the strokes of colour on the canvas, it felt like a kick to the gut. He sat back down, shaking his head, squeezing his knees to his chest. What the fuck was he supposed to do? There was nothing that was coming to his mind. No ideas, not even something resembling one. And it was sad. All he wanted was something presentable. God, Madarame would be so disappointed if he were to see what was on this canvas. These simple strokes of meaningless colour, hell, it wasn't as if there were any emotions behind it, either. No hidden meaning, nothing. Just strokes. Did he scream and break the easel? No, that was idiotic.
Inspiration. That was what he needed. But from what? Nothing, over these past few weeks, had inspired him. Nothing. He could laugh at that. The sheer stupidity of the lack of inspiration. There was inspiration everywhere, who was he kidding? But… then, why did nothing work? Nothing he had tried to capture the essence of was satisfying. Nothing. He could do justice to nothing. What would Madarame think? Now all he could think of was the disappointment waiting for him. A sickening feeling went through his guts. He had to repay Madarame, he knew he did. And he couldn't do that with a few strokes of colour. They didn't even go together, now that he was looking. The blues were too bright, the greens were too dull, and the red was far too saturated to contrast nicely with either colour. So he really just… accomplished nothing. Pitiful.
A long, drawn out sigh pushed its way from his lungs. He could, perhaps, find new meaning in the morning. He rubbed his eyes, ignoring how he had gotten paint on the area, now.
Now, normally, people laid down when they slept. Yusuke? He more or less just let his head rest on his arms, which were folded on his knees. His eyelids lowered, thankful for the fact that finally, the artist was at least attempting to rest. It had been a week, most likely, since Yusuke had gone to sleep. Perhaps getting rest would actually benefit him. Maybe he could wake up with a fresh idea. No… no, that was a stupid idea.
As he thought, however, he slumped forward. Too exhausted to push himself upright, he fell forward, laying on the floor face-first. But he didn't really fall asleep, no. More or less… he just passed out.
The daily routine of the artist.