The nights stride of a young man; uncertain of what sanity he has left. For he as an artist, there is no line between the right nor wrong and he could look through the eyes of a child or an old man. The cataclysm of somewhat hard to reach places of his mind where he stores his most basic thought and he escapes the world around him to the darkness of his own.
He would hum to himself, thinking about his secondhand old rags of clothing wrapped around him. He would still feel the wet on his sleeve of red paint, easily mistaken for blood. But he knows the truth behind what mark might be left and would wipe away the care of anybody that might stop to look and wonder.
Like his thoughts as comparison to a song writer or a humble monk, he is different to his surroundings and finds peace in what he creates.
He might even stop in his tracks, give one muffled cough and turn back on his heels to walk a different path or return to one of his recent destinations. A movie perhaps or a short story of his every step he might think. For this is his world and in his mind he can create whatever he needs. He is the painter of his own life and feels that every movement to his fingers might let go of something magical.
Such a nice word he thinks as he repeats it to the world in his own words: “magical”
Sliding his hand over the nearest wall, as if more than a second ago before his touch it might not have even exist.
His pants loosen and holding on as if that of an homeless child and worn through sneakers fitted on his bare feet. Long hair oiled down but still somewhat curled and on some parts stuck on his face.
One would think that this man is the soul survivor of the war. Waiting for days in a shelter without any food or water and praying for his god to save his life.
But he knows he is more than that. He is a child of the free and the director his own life scene.
He is the painter…
