Written in Blood

In Memory of the forlorn Spirit of the Wanderlust Artist Who died unknown and unsung like the Unknown Soldier in the battlefield.
Even the world forgets, I will never forget you.

He scribbled the title with the nib dipped in the vial of blood.
He took the snapshots of the title written on the A4 size piece of white paper. Then, he dropped his Canon digital camera and sat on the wooden chair made from Mahogany. He looked at the oil on canvas portrait on his easel and smirked. Steve Wonder’s classic song Isn’t She Lovely echoed in his head. What a waste. And she was his fiancé.
The agonies of the ironies of life always left him dumb and numb.

Whom the demoniacs want to destroy, they first make deaf to every word of reason.

He turned on his personal computer. A Toshiba desktop that was a gift left in the studio by Rafaela his roommate before he relocated to Port Novo in the Republic of Benin. Rafaela said Nigeria was becoming too crowded for his peace of mind. The traffic jams in Lagos city were nerve wrecking for a quiet artist to work in a peaceful atmosphere that would be conducive to his spirit. But he was the opposite of Rafaela, be loved everything about the hustle and bustle of the congested mega city. He loved the drama of life. The good, the bad and the ugly. The sharp contrasts of life thrilled him.
Life is a story to be told.
Finis.

He read the story silently. Steve thought it was all fiction. But if only the agent knew that there was only a thin red line between his virtual world and their reality.
That is why I love quantum physics.
He sneezed and made the sign of the cross.
He remembered that he had not gone for confession. And without confession, he would not partake in the Holy Communion tomorrow. And a Sunday mass without Holy Communion always left him in a state of emptiness.

He swore that imagination traveled at the speed of light. He wondered what a clone of Sigmund Freud and Albert Einstein would look like. Awesome.
He remembered the artwork he did and called it, The Network of Entropy. But his tutor, the great Bruce Onobrapkeya could not understand it. It was all physics to him. His other paintings based on equations also puzzled the printmaker.

“Sir, one cannot be a good artist if you do not understand the physics of light. How would you accurately show light and shade in drawings and paintings without the knowledge of light? And without the knowledge of chromatics, you cannot understand colors and how to use them in painting your objects,” he emphasized during one of their sessions on nature study in class.
“Pablo!”
His classmates hailed him and he nodded to acknowledge their appreciation of his genius. His psychophysical hypothesis of Art awed his classmates.
He was one of Onobrakpeya’s Magnificent 12. The twelve most outstanding students on his honors list in Art class. But he believed he was light years away from the others. The flashback soon became blurred and he sighed. He turned to the radio cassette player on the wooden reading desk and pressed play. The transcendental sound of Mozart’s Haffner symphony soon filled the studio and as he listened, he fell asleep with his head resting on the reading desk. Symphony No. 35 always possessed him anytime he listened to it.

"People make a mistake who think my art has come easily to me. Nobody has devoted so much time and thought to composition as I. There is not a famous master whose music I have not studied over and over."
--- Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart