Final Chapter

The world is a place that either makes someone laugh for its absurdity or causes that person to be sad, dejected, and sorrowful.

A man walks down the street half or fully naked. Someone could laugh at his free spirituality, or that person could get sad to see another human being in that situation. This life and universe with all that folly and incongruity work like a magician or an alchemist. It turns and transforms anything into something else. Some people who were rich all their lives become poor and a vagabond. It turns a sad thing like a death of a star into something as beautiful as a Nebula.

A man like me who is sitting in the park and painting to just visit his past, either it makes me look like a pervert or creepy in the eyes of some families or an inspiring model for the young one. I already painted two of three paintings of the exact location. During the painting of those, I was approached by many people. Some of them came to see a man at work and enjoyed the process, something they usually see in many other places. Be it in a museum, an art gallery, or shops/stores, they saw the finished ones. They didn’t witness how an artist combines different colors to create another one or shadow something to make it realistic—all those tricks and tools to deceive the eyes, all that for the realistic painting. For surrealism, which could show the convoluted mind of an artist, another set of tricks needed to be applied. First, I tried to paint a realistic picture of the same place that I visited often. Some families got anxious when they saw a resemblance of themselves in that painting. They asked me why I was painting them and their children. My answer was that in that moment and place, that was the thing I was observing. I talked to those annoying people while I was painting. I didn’t mind talking to them. That would fulfill my daily practice of talking to strangers. I hit two birds with one stone.

The second painting of the same place was more abstract. Even though it was in the middle of summer, I started painting it like it was in the middle of winter. The snow was falling, and the park was empty of people. This time, it attracted another type of people. They were curious to know why I was painting snow and not the people, and my answer was that I tried that and people didn’t like it. However, I finished that painting. Still, it hurt me to see so much distrust from people. I also explained to them the reason behind painting the park in the snow was so people could leave me alone in peace. It didn’t matter; they came and talked to me. Again, I didn’t mind that; it was just wishful thinking anyway.

The third painting I was working on was a more apocalyptic and dystopian version of the park. The trees and grasses were burnt. The equipment in the park was either broken or rusted. Some benches were melted. That kind of creativity invited another type— the curious and anxious ones. They wanted to know why I was painting such a horrific picture. My answer to them was that I felt and wanted to do it that way. This time, they involved the police. The police came and asked me why I was painting such a thing, and my answer to them was the same. However, it didn’t stop people from coming to me and asking me the same question over and over again. A logical person would think if a person doesn’t want to be bothered with anyone, why not take a picture and do his painting in his home or other places that people can’t bother him?

My answer to those people would be that I learned my lesson from the past that life seems logical, but most of the time, it isn’t. When we start thinking that the whole universe is in order and runs by logic, we find a phenomenon that questions everything we know. Back to the question, why not take a picture instead of a brush on canvas? Because it would still attract those people who were suspicious. To their eyes, I would be creepier. I took pictures of many landscapes and parks; still, many concerned people sent their “Man” to handle me or see what I was up to. As if I were anything close to what they thought of me to be, I would confess.

“Hello,” a female with a Londoner accent said.

Great, now I have to talk to a concerned mother, I thought.

“Hi.” I didn’t even try to look at her.

“Wow, that is depressing and sad. Why would you paint such a thing?” she asked me.

“For my amusement, my imagination, and my entertainment are good reasons for me,” I answered. Then I felt a drop of weight on the bench. Her perfume attacked my nose. I still didn’t look at her. It would only encourage them to make the conversation longer.

“I hope you didn’t mind that I sat here,” she said unapologetically. I just threw up my shoulder to show that I didn’t care. I continued painting.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“If I remember, your other paintings were more . . . what is the word that I’m looking for?” she said to herself. I ignored her comment. There were some who actually saw my other two paintings, and they commented about those as well. She was one of them perhaps.

“Am I bothering you?” she asked.

“Not more than others,” I replied. I heard her chuckle.

“That painting was full of different animals and combined in a different color. It was dreamy,” she said. That made me pause a moment. She probably recognized me for my other works. I did receive those compliments a lot, but I was in different locations. It just surprised me to hear that after so many years of finding a hiding place from another type of pesky people. Those were the worst. They would go on forever to explain their feelings, the amusement, and the good memories they carried when they came across those paintings. That was a good case. There was another one who wouldn’t leave my side. They wanted to follow me anyplace I was going, even in the bathroom, if I let them. There was another one who just wanted to have an experience with famous people. They would go to the extreme. It was a sad thing to see.

Anyway, which group of fans she was, I didn’t know. Also, I knew that my time in this was getting shorter before every fan of mine came and gawked at me while I was painting. There it goes, another place that is going to be on my blacklist.

“I guess lots of people are bothering you as I do now, isn’t it?” she asked. I could’ve been rude and shown my annoyance, but to what end? She won’t be sorry for what she did in the sense that she did something wrong. She’d be sorry for herself that she wasted her time with someone like me.

“Tell me, what do you see in this painting?” I asked her so we could change the subject.

“I see you painted this park, but it has been burnt and abandoned,” she said.

“Why?” I asked her. I could sense her smile.

“I don’t know. Maybe there was a fire or an incident. Is that right?” she asked.

“There is no wrong answer or right answer in painting,” I educated her.

“Oh, that’s right,” she said to show me she knew all along. She wanted to keep her pride intact.

There was silence for a moment, and I enjoyed that moment.

“What is your answer though?” she asked.

“I don’t understand your question,” I responded.

“What is your perspective in this painting? What do you see?” she asked.

“I don’t think my answer would be that satisfactory.”

“Try me,” she challenged me.

“This is my hell,” I said, and it made her laugh. Again, I didn’t look at her. That would invite another approach from her. I continued painting.

“Why don’t you look at the person you are talking to?” she asked me. Because I still have a brain, I thought.

“This painting needs my full attention. I don’t want any distraction,” I said politely.

“Oh, so I’m a distraction now, aren’t I?” she asked. I just showed her my disinterest by raising my shoulder up and down.

“How do you know if it’s a friend or a foe you are talking to?” she asked.

“Right now, I don’t care about either of them. However, I know that my friends wouldn’t bother me when I’m focusing on doing something,” I responded.

“Oh,” she said with a sad tone. Nonetheless, I didn’t care about some stranger. I tried my best not to be rude to her, but she forced me to do it.

“Maybe another time then,” she said at last. The excitement in her voice was gone. I didn’t answer her. I hoped that would be our last meeting.

“Agustin, I told you not to ignore me,” she said with a firm voice. That phrase sounded familiar to me. Then it came to me. I looked at her. There she was. She was wearing a sleeveless summer dress. Her long dark-brown hair was gathered on one side of her shoulder. I knew two angry hazel eyes were behind those sunglasses. The hat on her head just added more beauty to her.

“Marina?” I asked. I smiled. I was in total disbelief. She wasn’t amazed by that.

“I thought you didn’t like to see a friend at this time, IF I am one of them,” she said. I ignored her silly comment. I knew that she was my friend, and she knew that too.

“Come and sit here. You have no idea how glad I’m to see you,” I responded.

“Are you sure? I thought you didn’t want to be bothered,” she said. Even though I knew she was being unreasonable, I didn’t take any of it to heart.

“Is this your concern?” I pointed at the painting. She didn’t answer. I kicked the stand, and there it went, the artwork. It fell to its doom. I looked back at her and saw her mouth was wide open in disbelief. The way she looked at me, it was as if I had lost all my faculties.

She went to the painting and tried to pick it up. While she was doing that, she told me that I was crazy and asked me the reason behind it.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I just told you,” I accused her. She pouted to hide her smile.

After putting back the painting on the stand, she came and sat beside me, much closer than before.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said. This time, she couldn’t hide her smile.

“That painting is ruined now, but I like it this way. This ruined painting will be more treasure to me now. It will remind me of the day and moment that I met you again,” I told her honestly. She attacked me with a hug and kissed me on both cheeks.

“I see. You still have that old charm of yours,” she said. I laughed at her comment, and she laughed with me. It had been such a long time that I had this much fun.

A few years passed from that meeting.

Now she is resting her chin on my shoulder and watching me type the last words of my story.

Now she is biting me gently on my shoulder and telling me to stop reporting what she is doing. She doesn’t understand that moments like these are treasures to me. I always remember them wherever I am or whenever I think of her. Even though my lesson from the past was brutal and harsh, but I learned from it.