Eva Shenay 9EN4 Word Count: 672

Euphoria

Stimulus 2

My eyes wander over the picturesque landscape, focusing on every detail it has to

offer. The tumbling, navy waves which overbear the orderly soldiers; lined up like the

seeds on a strawberry. Wrinkles of water, scattered with freckles of burgundy,

latching on to their knees, pulling them down as they approach the garish sun.

Skeletal limbs of bark reaching out over the horizon, topped with a bush of leafy hair.

I make my way up the painting, acknowledging even the minor details, when I am

confronted with a barricade. Four barricades; framing the artwork and limiting my

view.

I blink and shake my head, attempting to snap out of it. Boundaries, barricades,

obstacles and frames, they’re all the same. I don’t understand why we have to frame

our paintings- place boundaries on our creativity. Almost like an expiry date, telling

you that when the edges of the frame turn to dust, your work is a past achievement;

one to reminisce about. Don’t get me wrong, I still love painting. The triumph you feel

after completing an artwork is a feeling that is almost irreplaceable, and is worth

every agonising obstacle and barrier you had to get through to paint a successful

artwork. I think that’s what got me; the obsession of pride. That euphoric emotion,

leaving you delirious with joy. That certain feeling practically kept me alive, kept my

blood going, and I had retained a dependency on it. I was impatient, however, when

it took too long for me to break through my mental barriers. I was too persistent to
Eva Shenay 9EN4 Word Count: 672

keep the euphoric feeling present, which ultimately led to my downfall - straight into a

bed of needles.

Having the white orb shine on you, having the spotlight, is an artists dream. I always

pictured myself bathing in this white light, holding my artworks for the world to see.

This dream was a reality for a short period of time, but I was determined to make the

spotlight a permanent position. When in the spotlight, attention eventually wore you

down. I couldn’t have that. I needed to sustain the euphoric feeling and avoid the

feelings of exhaustion. That’s when I ventured out of the glittering ring into the

darkness; drugs. Drugs were supposed to be used as a coping mechanism, a

temporary procedure to be used to deal with the spotlight. It didn’t go to plan though,

as I’m still here, rolling up my sleeve, adjusting the delicate, long needle to my vein.

The euphoric feeling returns once more, and I am filled with ecstasy. The white orb is

near - I see it, it’s visible and attainable. Yet that is not the light I crave anymore. The

bright white light dissipates, and instead the orange flame is blazing. I now sit here,

trembling as I attempt to push a tiny piston between my toes.

When I’m high, I like to immerse myself into my paintings. I picture myself, wading

through murky waters stained with my blood, ready to fight for my country. I’m

trembling as I grab my thigh; bloody, battered and bruised, still dedicated to keep

going. Ironically, as I depict my injured heroism, I’m groaning with satisfaction as I

push the needle down on my thigh; over and over again. I know it’s dishonourable to

illustrate myself as a hero - I’m aware that I am not. I think a part of me just hopes

that the more I embody myself into my paintings, expressed as a hero, an old part of
Eva Shenay 9EN4 Word Count: 672

me will come back. It’s a form of escapism, a way I can abandon society and live in

an imaginative reality.

So I sit, facing a blank canvas, juggling a paintbrush and a syringe. I look at my

surroundings. The room is wrapped with my creations, yet the barrenness I reflect

overpowers the scarves of colour. My grip tightens on the needle, as I realise my

disconnection. It pierces, and unlike the visuals of my paintings, I am encountered

with the blank canvas. The white landscape froths, bubbling and drowning me. I am

not confined anymore, I am finally clean.