ARTISTS’ DESPAIR

Art is the voice of Nature; history is her tale; poetry is her song; politics is her language; love is her silence, for love, when spoken by Nature is always very quiet, unless frustrated.

Happiness is the prize Nature gives to whomever unquestioningly understands her. Sorrow is the spell Nature casts on anyone who is blind to Nature’s being Nature. Science is an enemy of Nature albeit her fifth child. He destroys Nature and all she holds dear, making her cry and they call it flood; sobbing, they call it earthquake; angry, they call it volcano; and whimpering, they call it hurricane. Happiness, although Nature’s reward, doesn’t always live with magnifiers of Nature’s voice, unfortunately. She reveals too much of her mind and this engulfs their good spirits. Who should Nature reward mostly if not her artists for Art’s sake? Now this is where I have problem with her.

A woman has always played violin next block. She has two children but no husband, at least, none that I’ve seen visited. The music from her violin always jolted me out of bed earlier than I’d love to, and I’ve prayed something stop her so that I could have my peace, but brethren, she wouldn’t stop. Then I got expelled from a plantation that had been mine for two years, and I was afraid this expulsion would not be revoked and all my time and resources would’ve gone into waste. I sat at the edge of my bed and cradled my head in my trembling hands. I was like this until suddenly, to my own surprise, my heart began to steady and my worries, wane. Why? No, you guessed wrong. It was my neighbour’s music. It had lulled me to the acceptability of my fall and infused in me a fresh willingness to start afresh. I soared off the bed and to the staircase I ran to gaze at her in her compound. There she was! At her porch, seated on a stool, doing her thing.

Slowly, as I studied her, I began to understand her. She was an artist, a magnifier of Nature’s voice, but she was in pain. She was lonely but full of dreams. She was ambitious but incarcerated by finance. And she was angry, thereby taking it out on her musical instrument everyday; her music was eloquent enough to tell that. A talent in the wilderness, a world-class player in the slum. I saw tears trickled down her face in rivulets as she played in subtle fury, hands going and coming, body swaying, eyes closed. I sighed so heavily I almost breathed out my lungs. I began to think too. Poets, singers, comedians, actors, actresses and all other artists and artistes want to make the world a better place. We write to encourage, we act to amuse and sing to soothe, but it is only little we’re able to do about the topic of our own amusement and happiness. Most of the writers whose love stories were tagged the best never experienced true love themselves. The most hilariously funny of all comedians are the privately saddest. Celebrated paintings and artworks of Michelangelo, Picasso, Bernini, Leonardo DaVinci and others were not done out of brightly coloured faces but rather of frowning profiles, bleeding hands, eternally patient mind and laugh-less souls. Unless most of us come to terms with the seething reality which we always want to balm, we often die sad ’cause the society defines our dreams insane.

I was lost in thoughts, and when I came back, I realized that the music had stopped and she was staring at me. I held her gaze and we looked at each other for nothing less than two minutes and looked away we did not. We were both artists. We understood very well what either of us was thinking. We knew, like everybody else like us, that our art would not allow us to sleep, and we’re not strong alone, but most of the time, no one can endure our addiction and domineering disposition, so we’re eventually left alone, and that hurts. Most of us have these ridiculously insatiable expectations and thusly end up isolated, single, divorced, intolerable or too introverted to mingle with the swimming fish.

I ended the melodrama when I whizzed out of her sight and stamped through the case, back into my room, shivering over the guilt that I had just fallen in love with an older woman and I wouldn’t be able to hide the feelings forever. Why haven’t I listened to her music all the while? I guess it’s because I’ve been happy all the while, and happiness although Nature’s gift, is a blindfold that will not let any man see more than his physical eyes will allow him. Happiness is a great spice of life; it lengthens life span and promotes health, but all the people we call celebrities in the creative faces of life are only full of laughter on the face but furrows in the heart. History is bloody, tears are its ink, sorrow is its twist, sadness is its turn, hypocrisy is its suspense, lies are its spices and happiness? Well, it’s the villain. Something like that sha. Ta ta.

©Lord eBay (and his random ruminations, 2016) reedited.
#eStreetWriters

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