He had lost everything except hope, for that was what kept him going.
His decision was quite impromptu but none could fathom how important, how immediate it was for him to take.
What had he lost? A couple of fake friends, few true ones, a pile of expectations of him, and a degree he had almost completed.
He was already on streets. May be, may be every voice that told him, warned him not to do so were true. But he didn’t feel down. He didn’t regret it.
He had his most beloved possession and that was what had been stopping his tears. In the corner, under the tree in almost ragged clothes, he kept looking at passerby.
He wasn’t sure if he was even looking for anything anymore. He didn’t have any specific thoughts. Looking into nowhere, for the first time he felt at peace. He closed his eyes and he didn’t need a subject anymore.
He let his thoughts, away from sorrow, beyond doubts, past ambitions to prove, achieve or produce a masterpiece. He just let them wander, as free as they could.
After hours, he finally put his brush down feeling what he hadn’t felt in ages. He smiled.
Right then, a car screeched to stop and a man rushed out. Gave his card and asked him to be there tomorrow or he could send someone to pick him up but was kindly refused.
“I will be there on my own. Thank you very much”
The next day he was stopped by the watchmen when he reached the place. He tried explaining showing him the card and then the same person came rushing to the entrance again.
It was an art exhibition. The man with his consent placed his art on the wall reserved.
He stood there not knowing what to say. The moment he had been yearning for, he had been running behind was right here. He stood there for hours in a corner seeing people appreciate it.
When he was asked more about him, he replied in tears, “Let my art speak for myself. That’s who I am.”
Day 2 of #NaBloPoMo