You Walked Alone

 

You walked alone even when you were surrounded by people

Your mind bending the world to suit the genius that resided there

Colors were your life, blues and yellows and reds¾bright colors, colors that held their own power.

You saw more fiercely and felt more deeply than everyone else.

But they could not understand. How could they? They did not see those things that you did, not even your brother.

A misplaced thing, everywhere you went people whispered and you painted. They laughed and you painted, frantically as if you knew your time was short. In your baggy clothes and your stained lips, in all weather and in all places, you painted.

The simple and the poor became beautiful; the worn and the forgotten became immortal by the heavy strokes of your brush.

 

The lights in the church window became dark, but the light in the peasants’ eyes did not. But, with the gift that the world was unready for, came a price. The price of the artist, the price of feeling, the price of genius is often high. Your demons followed you as relentlessly as you worked. The stars, the water, the flowers and the birds became more than they were on your canvas. Your world was the world of unending simplicity wrapped in confusion, like the Mistral you braved your mind as it waged war against itself. In the end, you would be the stone that you broke yourself on.

 

You were not afraid to bleed, or hunger, or thirst, you showed us that. The Heads of art scoffed at your work, they did not understand, or they were not ready, or they were jealous; no matter, still you worked. You loved few people, your heart loved art more. And how much can one heart hold? Rich men and lace-bound ladies did not interest you. The people of the earth, and the streets did; you saw Truth in them and you painted it.

 

 You sold nothing in your life, save one. It was not about that. It was about creating— creating the world as it lived within you, and nothing else.