He had the power to make the mountains red, the sun green, the sea brown and the rain orange. He knew that he would never be condemned for it because leveraging his powers according to his whims was something which, from him, was expected, even commonplace. Sometimes, if he was brutally honest with himself, he knew that there was another reason why he'd never have to fear any sort of condemnation - simply because no one cared enough to do so.
He was an old, old man who had colored chalk at his disposal to exercise his powers. He drew pictures on the sidewalks of Seattle's busy roads - of the ferry, of a shabby building, of a mother walking her child to school, of the frenzied hours of the traffic, of a flower, of a butterfly, of a harried executive with a briefcase, of an old woman with a walker, of a truant boy jumping in the puddles during the rains, of a urinal, of a dog on a leash, of a homeless person with a sign asking for food - of anything and everything that caught his fancy. His earnings were only what the passers-by dropped in his bowl but then really, how much money did an old man living alone in a ramshackle attic of a dilapidated building need?
He didn't use paints - not because he felt that he had no ability to paint a picture worthy of being put down on canvas but simply because he couldn't afford them. He never regretted using chalks because they cemented his belief that one didn't always need expensive things like paints, canvas and easels to create wonders. His work, insignificant and needless though it might seem to a majority of the world, made him feel productive. He looked forward to every day, wondering what would trigger his mind enough into motivating him to translate the world's visions to his perceived visions in chalk on the busy sidewalks which, more often than not, got a mere superficial glance by most of the pedestrians.
Today, however, he was morose, even though he could see a beautiful black duck paddling in a nearby pond that he knew, just knew, would look very appealing in chalk. It was one of his weary days - he brooded over his life and then he tortured himself by telling his brain not to call it a life - it was mere existence, where loneliness abounded and old age brought him nearer and nearer to death everyday. Death would be no new adventure since there would be no one in this big wide world who'd even notice that he's gone.
As he started drawing the black duck, it came out of the water and sat near the edge of the pond, apparently soaking up the meek sun. The old man continued to make chalk strokes from memory as another part of his brain contemplated ending his pointless existence for once and all.
"We go through the motions of our existence mechanically. What's in it for us in the end? It's better to bring things to a close sooner than later."
Seattle is not the world's best place to be a sidewalk chalk artist in. Just then, the grey skies gave way to rain. The old man stood near his chalk portrait, seeing it wash away. He just stood there, dripping in the rain. He then squatted down on the sidewalk and was in the same position, looking at the vestiges of his portrait, even when the rain had stopped and the sun was out again. His wiped-out work seemed like a sign of futility of his existence all over again. It seemed that the Gods were mocking him. He lamented at the realization that he'd never leave a mark in this world.
His distressed musings were interrupted by a voice, "Oh, will you do it again later?"
The old man turned his head and saw a small boy trying to make his dog stay put on the leash. He looked at the boy straight in the eye for so long that the boy squirmed in discomfort and then walked on.
Just then, the duck quacked. The old man turned to look at the pond. The duck was dry by now and it waddled over to the edge of the pond and then, suddenly, leapt inside. With some amusement, the old man shook his head at the duck's stupidity - what was the point in drying itself if it had to go back in again?
Yet another mechanical motion, he mused? Then, he stood transfixed as the answer hit him - it was the mere pleasure in the simple things life had to offer that kept one going. Life as a whole may not seem to have a meaning but if one learns to derive pleasure from the little, everyday things in life, it would be more like a gift one is grateful for rather than something imposed on us by the Creator. We're not puppets on a chain - we go through what we perceive as the rut simply because deep down, we really enjoy being in it. Why don't we accept this and learn to recognize our love for the "ruts" we're in?
"Hey, boy," the old man called in sudden cheer to the boy with the dog.
The boy turned with some surprise. He then smiled as he heard the old man say, "I will do it again, young man, I will do it again."
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