The Trampling Artist

A wooden chair. A wooden table. A wooden spoon. All is well in the world. For what we strip from the Earth will be replenished. A vital life source. There are no sacrifices to be made. For our sole existence in this world is to provide, and nourish. Nobody is starving in this world. 

And yet, what about those whose gluttonous greed submerges those that are desperately starving for even a morsel of food? Has the Earth’s resources been exploited? To the point of no return?

Why do we kill? Why do we survive, here on this Earth? Is it our calling? Our purpose? Are we completing a past life’s mission? Or are we reincarnated here on this Earth, for the sole reason to suffer in penetrating silence, forced to follow in the footsteps of those before us? 

"Eat, Francis. Food’s running cold." his mother murmured, gorging down a large cut piece of chicken breast. 

He blinked. He was so immersed in his own thoughts lately, even the basic, most necessary of things seem tedious, futile. His hand, stiff like the rocks forming the innermost crevices of the Earth, reaches for the fork. He hesitates, for a small moment. Such small, indistinguishable things never go unnoticed in the eyes of the peeping top. 

"Francis, what’s the matter with you lately?"

Another question, amidst the lost words floating away in the deafening silence. He chooses not to utter a single word, lest he wants to end up sacrificed on this plate instead of the livestock.

Another lengthy pause. Another long, heavy sigh. So much to be said. So much unspoken. 

A screeching, scratching sound of the knife slicing through the chicken, followed by a vehement bite. The tension is thickening, like trickling water, slowly but surely filling the room, threatening to suffocate them before they do something. Say something.

"Francis." The water level. It's rising. Higher and higher. 

"If you don’t tell me what’s going on, right now -

"I’m changing course."

There. Those three words. So unalarming, so gentle. And yet so deadly. They lay themselves bare, wide open, ready to be ravished by whoever dares to plunge deep into the beckoning gates of the unknown. For Francis doesn’t know where he’ll end up after this. It will either make him, or break him. 

A rough plop of the fork on the plate, signaling the end of something. The rope, being pulled to its last sliver, is almost torn to shreds. A harsh rub of the temples. A wanting gaze towards the ceiling, towards the sky, begging the heavens above for mercy. He knew it would come to this.

The chicken lay bare, cold, destitute. Alone.

"Francis" came the brooding, guttural response. "We talked about this."

He dared a peering gaze at the punitive, vile monster. Its eyes were glued on him like a predator hungrily ogling at its prey, ready to pounce and tear him to shreds at any moment. Much like the chicken, his life is being stolen away from him in front of his own two very eyes, to be abused by those that were before him.

The repetitive, grueling thump of his foot against the floor, marching with the hand of the clock. Time, much like gritty sand, is sifting ever so quickly between his fingertips, indicating the inevitable march of time drifting away from him. This argument, like the knocking of a migraine against the confines of his skull, was bubbling at the surface. It would soon boil to a seething steam, tearing apart any semblance of the life he once knew.

"You know you can’t do this." came the desperate, pleading cry of his mother, forcefully throwing her knife away from her, as though it were burning hot. 

"How many times have we talked about this? When will you learn?"

A piercing pause. Another demanding plea.

"You know how smart you are, how bright your future is. Hell, you have the best grades out of all of your classmates! Why should you throw that away, for a stupid, fruitless dream of yours?"

The violent, harsh terms. Stupid, she says. Then, was the aching throb he felt in his heart, every time a new idea sparked in his mind, also stupid? When the negative, destructive thoughts that waft away to soar high up in the sky, to be held by the blessed hands of the angels, every time his brush strokes away at his canvas, his bountiful imagination coming to life for all those lost souls that crave to find solace and comfort from their broken, lost cries, whom, just like him, are trying to find themselves, in a world which stifles those that dare to dream bigger?

The screeching sound of the wooden chair against the floor. The slam of the hand against the table, the tyrant commanding all the attention to her. He lost count of how many times he listened to this tale. Like a record tape that’s gone bad, the words being caught in a monotone rhythm, a limbo of sorts, cursed to be repeated over and over unless the listener is satisfied enough to venture to press the pause button. But alas, no matter what he did, no matter what brilliant, well - respected career he chose to pursue, it was never enough. For she, who deems everything around her imperfect, who manages to find faults in even the most symmetrical, orthodox thing to ever exist in the world, would never satiate that urge to tower over everything this world has to offer, and squash its light with her feeble, dim hands. 

"Francis! Why won’t you listen to me?" The broken cry is getting louder, more hoarse, more anguished. "You want to end up like your deadbeat father? The most intelligent man I ever had the pleasure to meet, a man with a promising future ahead of him, only to end up with nothing to his name? All because he chose to follow a music career, where everything he ever produced ended up in the rubbish? Please, Francis!"

He couldn’t listen to this nonsensical jargon anymore. He couldn’t suffer any minute more of it. "Mother, please, I’m not -

"I already told you, you can pursue art as a hobby! However, do continue your studies in medicine, for, at least you’d have the guarantee of a high paying job! You’d be secured financially! Don’t you want to make your mother proud? Please, Francis, would you just listen to me!"

The ringing in his ears became louder, merciless. Hot, scorching blood coursed through his veins, his trembling hands clenched in a fist, his teeth biting down on his tongue to silence himself, to not let a word slip out. But with each word that comes out of her mouth, each word, amidst those piling up one on top of the other, like a Jenga game, one more slow, meticulous pull of a block would make them tip over the edge, tumbling down to their fate. 

His blood boiled, bubbled up beneath the surface. One more word. One more bloody word.

"ENOUGH!" he howled, silencing the menacing beast that stood before him. His muscles, pumped full of oxygenated blood, took hold of the plate, with the dead, cold chicken laying bare before him, and with a force strong enough to fight a trampling bull, smashed it, sacrificing the poor chicken and its contents, now resting on the dirty, dusty ground.

"How many times do I have to tell you? Why do I have to be blamed for your sad, demeaning life? It’s not my fault that you and papa did nothing with your lives, apart from following what society expects you to! I want to be different! My soul is begging me to follow another path, the path I so longed for from the moment I was born on this earth, yet was prevented from doing so due to your projections of insecurities and fear onto me!"

Another pause. A deep, fueling breath.

"Let me tell you this. I. am. NOT. my. Father. I am my own person, with my own dreams and aspirations, my own flesh, my own skin, my own organs, my own heart and soul. I am simply but an amalgamation of all the lineage of ancestors and of generations that came before me, whom, through the power of their own wishes and dreams, planted this seed in my trembling heart, which laid dormant, and was about to take its last breath, as a result of its lack of oxygen and water to nourish and sustain it! Now, this seed, on its last, final breath, is begging to be watered, to be cared for the way it should have been all this time! If every path that lies before each reincarnated soul is full of pain and suffering, why should I follow one which doubles that? Don’t you think I know about the sacrifices I have to make? The thought of not knowing where I’ll end up, cripples me to my very core! And yet, despite all this, I’m prepared to go down this path!  For, although my fate is doubly uncertain, what lies ahead of me is a life full of pure joy and happiness! And if you’d but accept that, accept my decision, and be gone with all your indignant worries and troubles, and let me follow my own heart, then you shall be rid of the burdens that you’ve unknowingly bestowed upon the both of us!"

A deep inhale, filling up his lungs with the air that, once so heavy and laden, now crisp and clear, soothing his beating heart and restless soul. With one more disappointing, fleeting look thrown his way, he was bound to break. Tears welled up in his eyes, for, even though he finally stood up for himself, rid himself of the weight breaking his back, still, somewhere hidden deep inside of him, he still longed for his parent’s love and admiration. 

Without letting her utter even a single word, he dashed, and bolted out the door. And he ran. And ran. And ran until his muscles ached, his feet gave way, his heart burst in his chest, his lungs about to explode. Then he stopped. And keeled over, letting his head softly swing between his legs. And gazed at the ground, the wind shifting aimlessly on the green, wet grass, the soil rich in all kinds of life, all kinds of things flourished by mother nature. 

Upon further observation, his eyes landed upon a colony of ants. Their small, limb legs dredged along the fertile soil protruding out, to form their comfortable, sizable home.  All were happy and content, trickling up and down, left, right, in all kinds of directions which they deemed suitable. But what struck Francis the most, was how, no matter what direction they chose to take, they were never separated from one another. They were bound together, destined to stay together, like a newly wed wife and husband. It delighted him immensely, and made him forget for a moment the pain staking trouble that befell him at home. There was something so magical, so calming about such small, insignificant insects, finding comfort in one another, a feeling so universal to all types of life, and trudging along the winding paths of the unknown, ominous forest. But, they were not afraid. For, despite all the fears and doubts that took hold of them, they had each other’s backs; they could rely on one another. 

Yet, not all of them seemed to find their way. 

One out of possibly the million, even billion of them, overcome by overwhelming curiosity, was wandering all alone, lost, separated. Alone. 

The ant seemed very scared, judging from its anxious rush to and fro, its sheer desperation making it muster up the courage for its tiny body to speed up its pace, longingly hoping to find its friends. Yet, despite all the sheer resilience this tiny little ant showed in the face of adversity, it was unknowingly walking away from its shelter, the one it and its friends worked so hard to build. Now its idea of a home was forever altered, crumbled to pieces, due to the lack of connection and community that once was so readily available and so taken for granted; now eternally lost and gone, to the abyss of nothingness, moroseness, and melancholy sadness. 

He couldn’t stand it, couldn’t take it. The thought of this poor ant, so lost and alone in this world, forced to succumb to a dire fate, one which no powerful, time - stopping force could seek to change, saddened him to his very core. Ants, much like humans, though dare to wander and seek knowledge of the world on their own, cannot possibly live so, no matter how strong or unbending their pride was. So, being left with no choice, he, who valued each and every life walking upon this blessed Earth as sacred and cherishable,  ever so slightly raised the tip of his foot, and crushed it. 

… 

Francis was startled. Oh dear. These stupid cameramen, and their stupid blinding cameras. He so wished they could just take their bloody pictures and get on with it. His eyes were almost about to bulge out of his skull with the onslaught of questions, from the left, from the right. Nonetheless, this was the first very anticipated opening night of his art gallery, so he must compose himself, and stifle his itching need for a nice, bubbly glass of wine. 

"Mister Francis!" said another one of the pestering pests, "Amongst all of your marvelous, awe - striking works of art, the one which stood out the most was ‘The Trampling Artist.’ What led you to create such a masterpiece?"

Before he could try and bolt out of there, for, growing up with only his innermost thoughts and creations as his dear friends, he was not quite used to someone shoving a microphone to his face, with all types of journalists and news outlets gathered around him, with perked ears and eyes bulging out their sockets, waiting for the Messiah to share his words of inner wisdom. 

He inhaled deeply, cleared his throat. Here goes nothing.

"Well," he began, the clicking of the pen resounding in unison, like an ensemble, ‘I remember having this horrible fight with my mother. She always had a different vision for me, you see. And I distinctly remember,’ he continued, his eyes lighting up as he recalled the intricate, delicate details as dozens of old memory files were dusted off and opened once again, ‘going out for a jog to cool myself. And I came across this colony of ants. To the ordinary person, they represent nothing of the sort, just some small, annoying insects I suppose. And yet, I was drawn to them, fascinated by how they walk together, have each other’s backs. So, if you look very closely to the subject of the painting,’ he commenced, pointing towards what seemed to be a young boy, his brain being replaced by a colony of ants, zig-zagging across and on top of one another, in a multitude of directions, forming the boy’s brain, "As odious as it may look, upon further inspection, much like how the ants need one another’s company in order to survive, so does society need doctors, lawyers, engineers, which are all very noble and excellent pursuits, to make the economy thrive, and thus society function properly. They are, metaphorically and literally, the brain of society. But it's this," now his eyes shone as bright as rays from the heaven, which shone through the gray clouds, as his finger motioned towards the other ants,

"Here," one on his shirt, "here," another crawling down his face, "and even here," one on his shoulder, "They’re all very alone, and somewhat abandoned, by the majority of society. And yet, if you look a bit closer, and analyze it a bit deeper, you come to realize that it's these lonesome, sad ants that stand out from the rest of the other ants, who are simply just following an act of duty, what they studied for. It's all very monotonous, very conjoined, like a black, heaping mess of a brain. But it's those that dare to be different, in this case, the solitary ants, who leave a mark on this world, who immortalize themselves, and are fondly remembered by the rest of the world. The rest are all doomed to ebb away by the inevitable march of time, to be forgotten. 

"So, my message is this,’ he said, as he turned towards the numerous cameras, and people, who somehow appeared to be closer, ‘You have only one life, so, with each and every breath you take, do what makes you the most happy. For, even though some may change the world, and some may inevitably fade away, we all, in someway or another, contribute to the effortless flow of society, and leave our mark in this world, whether big or small."

And, as the claps of the audience bellowed in the confines of the room, it was only his mother’s, which echoed the loudest, that touched his heart.