The Artist (III)

The Man in White called the security chief: ” we need to be vigilant sir. I want all doors, gates, windows, any pass way under strict surveillance. The Artist is going on a trip, and you know sir, nobody leaves this place easily, without my permission. I bet he is planning for an escape”.

He hung up the phone and turned to The Woman in Blue and asked her: “do you know his parents or any of his relatives?

– No I don’t. And it is weird that he is mentioning a trip. This whole idea makes me unease. You were right to call up the security people.


It was a hot day and he was running across the green field. The smell of blossoming flowers still lingers until this day. This place was his playground. He would play with his friend, the beautiful C. They would invent games every time, they would chase one another, would race and he would always win. She was indeed very beautiful, looking almost like coming straight out of a painting. He loved her so much that he started drawing her face. He drew her again and again until perfection. This is how he became The Artist. And with every new portrait, they were both happy. He’s smiling at this memory, staring at all her portraits right across his bed. It was an innocent and strong love. He solely trusted her and he misses her so much.

But one day, she didn’t show up to the playground. He waited for her for many days, for weeks. He went to her house and knocked on the door; her mom told him that she was terribly ill. He pushed her away and went up to her bedroom. What he saw was painful. She was pale and thin, she lost all her beauty. She slowly turned her face and said to him: “I’m sorry. I am very sick. Promise me that you will keep on painting and think of me while doing it”.

Years have passed since he saw her and this memory never fails to bring tears to his eyes. He never wanted to hurt her; he just wanted to stop her pain. So he came closer to her, put his hands around her neck and strangled her. “I loved her deeply I didn’t want her to suffer” he reminded himself. “Aren’t we supposed to take care of the ones we love?” His feelings are still strong and so are his ideas. To love is to eradicate the pain. To love is to sacrifice. Love requires courage. People teach this but little do they apply what they preach; they are all selfish liars. No wonder the world is crying.

Then he painted her again but this time her features were fading away. This was new and strange to him. It oddly amused him. He smiles then laughs out loud as always. He is free now, free of her haunting face, she is flying very high with the wind. He feels ecstatic; for the first time he knew he did the right thing.

The Artist (II)



The Man in White asked him: “your art is becoming progressively dark. Why is that?” The Artist remained silent, deeply taken by many ideas, frenetically painting. “Are you anxious or mad at anything?” said The Man in White.
– Yes I am. The world is in danger and I must save it. I don’t want to witness my loved ones suffering
– Why do you think it is your duty to save the world and to save them?
– Because I am The Artist, the greatest man who ever lived! Artists are heroes; they always make the world a better place. But this time, it is about saving it.

Then, The Artist laughed out loudly, which worried The Man in White. He asked The Artist: “How will you save your loved ones? Who are they? I’ve never met them”. “My parents” replied The Artist with a smile. “We are going on a trip together, they are rich! There will be landscapes and sunshine, birds and flowers; the perfect place to talk, to laugh and to cry, to love and to hate. I love mom and dad, it breaks my heart to see them sad”. Then he jumped off his seat and yelled at The Man in white: “I hate them. They made me sad. How will I spend many days with them? I don’t know. Should I go with them or should I not?” The Artist sat down and stared at the wall on his right. He mumbled inaudible words to himself. To this sight, The Man in White left, unease and worried. He will miss The Artist.

The Artist (I)


20190823_185631.jpg                                  (drawing by me)

In two weeks, they will all travel to meet after quite a long separation. The Artist was anxious, apprehending this trip. He hadn’t seen them for too long. The mere idea of spending several days with them all at once sends shivers down his spine. How can a short trip rebuild shattered lives? Doesn’t love require consistency and daily efforts? Warmth without connection is a fading trace of love. So, how this short trip revive it all?

“One can fake it”, he says to himself, “as long as nobody gets hurts, right?” He shook this idea out of his mind quickly: honesty is bravery. He can’t fake it to his own family. Then his anxiety grew by the hour. He didn’t know what to tell them. He was struggling with his art. He thinks they see him as a failure; they think he sees them as greedy; he thinks he is the greatest man alive.

He had a mission: to make the money making world a better place with his art. “We have sold our souls to the devil; one can’t mix money with art, it becomes a mockery”, he says to himself. But what do they understand anyway?

He pictured his family reunion full of virulent discussions and quarrels. Will they finally accept them the way he is? Will he accept them the way they are?

The metaphor of life!


20190819_184003.jpg                         (If anyone can help me please with the name of the painter?)

#consciousness #literature #philosophy #prose #poetry


It’s chilly and dark outside and I am alone in my bedroom. It is perhaps my favorite part of the day, when I am in complete harmony with my inner self. It is the time when I rethink the world and people, when love is vivid in me. Isn’t it the way to consciousness?

The night is always magical and charming. It has the power to turn multiplicity to unity. People are all alike in the dark. They get along emotionally. It is when the brutal images of the day quit clashing in front of me and violent noises remain quiet. Then I become in a thinking mode. Music would be my greatest companion in these moments. All this is, to me, an exciting cocktail for creativity. Life is beautiful when we write it; it is never the same on every page. We write it with style and metaphors, with poetry and images. Feelings are only expressed after being crafted.

The metaphor of life makes me laugh. I would love to laugh so hard it hurts. I would love to laugh at life and for life, because life is beautiful and ironic. Once I think I understand it, it plays tricks on me. To be drunken of laughter, incapable of seeing clearly, letting all off, from my inner soul until I can hear no sound but mine, laughing! All channels in me are open, connecting with the universe; life demands openness; only death is a closure. Refusal is a closure; hate is a closure, envy is a closure. Every time I am negative, I am shutting down a part of me.

In fine, my face remains, in all this surrounding darkness, white like snow!