L’Artiste

       “He was a man of few words,” they’ll tell you.

But that isn’t completely true. In fact, it is false to say that this man - boy might be a better thing to call him - was one of few words.

In reality, this boy was a master of words, a practised expert in the subject. But it was not spoken words that were his domain, it was written words. For this boy was an author, as precise and as careful as a painter, his pen his brush and his words his paint. Indeed, this boy had talent! Truly, a quintessential artist of the floating world.

His mind was a powerful machine, creating worlds, bringing characters to life. He would sit alone for hours, never speaking with his tongue, speaking volumes with his hands.

To the few that understood, he was a success. The brilliant mind of a brilliant artist creating art that was a marvel to behold.

But as it is in this physical world, art is as fleeting as beauty, not suspended for all eternity, as it is in the floating world.

He would temporarily leave his words for a while, if he was told he must. He was not one to cause disagreements in the physical world.

Those older than him would smile at him, their wizened eyes and skin wrinkling as they did so. “Do you know what you want to be when you’re older?” they would ask.

He would nod, a twinge of nervousness in his heart (as aforementioned, he was a man of few spoken words,) and reply that yes, he did, he wanted to be a writer.

Their reactions were always the same. As if he hadn’t spoken, they would laugh and shake their heads, saying “Oh, don’t worry, you’ll find what you want to do in time!”

He would smile in return, his lips tight. He would silently assure himself that they didn’t know what they were talking about, that they were just blind. That they didn’t understand his art, that his goal was right.

Ah, yes, truly, an artist of the floating world. Perhaps he would have succeeded, had the physical world had been more kind to him. He had been walking to class when a careless driver, drunk from the night previous, hit him with a two-ton pickup truck, and the dear artist was killed.

Pity, pity, pity.

Pity he didn’t prove those adults wrong. Pity he didn’t become the celebrated artist he had always dreamed of being. Pity the physical world wasn’t so kind to him, ending his beautiful dreams and words with the mistake of another man.

The words remained, their meanings gathering dust. The stories were forgotten. And what of the elders?

They’ll shake their heads and pity the man of few words. “He died so young,” they’ll say. “He hadn’t even figured out what he wanted to do with his life before it was taken from him.”