Here we see a medium-sized box-like room filled with scattered paperwork, music notes, and antique furniture—some dusty, all smelling like old wood and decayed wisdom. The wind blew against the thin, feather-like curtains that had a lining of gray dust on its edges. The room was so full, yet it was empty—devoid of all color or blissful emotion.

Enter Kim Jong Wan: the owner of this barely saturated cube. His hair was messed up, his glasses were too big for his face, and his attire had always been the same: a torn brown scarf, black leather jacket, ripped jeans, and a pair of secondhand Dr. Martens boots that he fished from the trash bin of his rich next door neighbor, Sunggyu. From day to night, he worked as a freelance musician—playing his self-composed songs that were deemed to somber for some but for most, his music—despite being a bit on the sad side, had a certain ring to it that leave them weak-kneed. By midnight, once the clubs were at their peak, he returns home and composes even more.

He dropped his guitar case on his couch full of patches, grabbed his pile of brownish sheet music and closed his eyes, searching for a melody that will catalyze his inner color—his passion, his inspirations. When he got his first few notes and overall concept, he started to write some lyrics until suddenly, his mind blocks up like pipe with a big lob of rock hard putty stuck in it.

It’s okay, Jong Wan, he whispered to himself as he took a deep inhale. It’ll come back. It will.

But nothing came. Not even a hint. A few hours passed like that.

It was always like this every night for him; after a long day of playing music to crowds of people, he would go home feeling inspired then struggle hence, the reason why there are thousands of sheet music scattered all over the place to the point where the floor could barely be seen.

Biting his lip really hard, he crumpled the half-baked sheet in front of him and threw it along with the messy pile from the night before. He began to cry softly, silently—frustrated by what he thinks is a lack of imagination—of color: the life of a problematic artist.

6 AM.

Amidst his silent but deadly self-conflict, a few notes began to repeat themselves in his ears—whispering to him—calling for him. A new light shined on him as the sun rose and the birds chirped. He was finally making a new song.

By 8, he was ready to get out to the streets, play for his crowd, and then repeat the cycle once again.

Thank you for reading and I hope you guys enjoyed it. :)