“Is this my cause? Should I have a cause in life or can I just paint because I want to paint?” he thought, staring at the unfinished portrait. An old woman with noticeable wrinkles on her face was bending down to pick up a piece of bread.
He decided to change the bread into something smaller but less valuable, a coin maybe.
“This stirred the French Revolution,” he thought. “I need something to stir the heart. Perhaps a drop of rain! A pill maybe,” he tittered as the alarm went off, reminding him that it was time to take one of his anti-cancer pills.
“I’m ordained dead, perhaps I should act dead. This is the cause, or is it the result?”
He poured a glass of wine, sipped it slowly and lit a cigarette.
He watched the smoke spiral in white circles, took a deep breath and puffed the smoke. The first puff caused a bout of coughing.
He stood in front of the mirror and watched his sallow face; wrinkles were beginning to form. He was too young to have wrinkles; he was too young to die.
He picked up the brush and changed the painting again; he drew a match. The old woman lit the match. He watched the smoke spiral in circles and engulf the room. The smoke caused a bout of coughing until he couldn’t breathe. Bread, rain, smoke and fire!
The flames danced around the room in circles. The colors looked enchanting and he dropped the brush; they were the colors of revolution, the colors of life.
The flames looked like angels dancing to a divine tune.