Color Blinded Minstrel

What use is life, when you can't see the colors you paint. If one holds a brush, one has the urge to create worlds upon worlds of imagery, layers upon layers of intricacy. Oh, a fool I was to believe my hands would create an image worthy of show. In a world full of marvelous and wonderful paintings, my art has left me rotten like fish, stinky and repulsive to the sight of many.

Yet I dare not lose hope. I recalibrated my faculties and inspire to paint again. Though my ability hinders me to create art, I believe that it only heightens my senses, my passion for the paint. I wish no longer to waste time; I long to pick the brush and paint the canvas and tell the world the story: a story that a color blinded minstrel can only dare see and sing! A world devoid of color yet full of whimsy and delight!

However, as time has passed and the long hours of the day became weeks to months to years, I slowly lost again my will to perform my craft. I saw countless other beauts on ordinary roads, seeing themselves as artisans or protégés to the craft made me realized that I have only faltered in my art- that I not only become weaker and older in painting. Yet all these people lavish themselves to the public like wine or cheese, with time and education they have matured enough to become the better version, the marketable version, the acceptable version of the craft. No. I dare not tempt myself again in this road. I have myself an art which belongs to the greatest of greats, one that transcends beauty even the Queen herself would personally visit to marvel at the thing I have created. Yes. It is only a matter of time, I have to work for my craft.

And after a long agonizing month, I have finished my work- the work which would astound everyone! I have to hurry. I remember a fair nearby, but I don't know what time and don't know where but I know it's there. I just have to hurry.

At long last, I got into my corner, with all the exhibits being cloaked with a bold red color, something marvelous yet something intriguing. And in there, the fair, I can finally reveal the world my art- something that is worth showing the world. A story which only painting can comply, only the cues of color can decipher it's meaning. Yes. I can let go of these agonizing chains of anxiety and reveal how I am as an artist! An artist!

And now the judging phase approaches. The judges are going through the displays one by one

And one

and one

and one

one

by

one

My confidence wavered at the sight of the others, with colors and imagery beyond expectation. As more and more paintings were revealed, the applause from the audience grew louder and louder and louder AND LOUDER.

No, it's almost my turn. I am almost done.

Thus, when the judges arrive at my corner, I breath a strong breath, and pulled the bright red cloak.

And there is was, my painting. Enriched with the beauty of a minstrel, with colors popping out of every inch of the painting. I knew, I was content with this lot.

Yet, I hear no applause

even a little

What's wrong? I thought it was supposed to be amazing? I thought it was supposed to transcend human imagination? Where are those cheers? those applauses?

Then one laughed. And another. And another. AND ANOTHER. AND ANOTHER.

The whole crowd, laughing in delight at my painting, and I, dazed and confused, with the events that transpired this. I didn't understand. I don't understand. Why!? Why is everyone laughing at it?! I was supposed to be receiving applauses?! WHY!?

Then someone scream out loud, with his voice distinctly so, "is that even a painting? The colors are all cluttered!" Then someone followed up, "I don't even see the thing we are supposed to be seeing!"

And there, I felt dread. Dread that, after all those years of working my art, those days which I worked myself into the bond creating this work of mine, were mere illusions I tell myself. All this time, I fooled myself into believing that I did, that I was better, that at the end of the day I was able to create something breathtaking, something inspiring.

Oh, what fool I was. I was blinded by ambition, and now it brought me to rot. Maybe I knew it, maybe I knew I didn't have the chance to, all along. I just kept fooling myself into believing that I could, just so that I can make something out of my pitiful career. Maybe, after all these years wasted into nothing, I was singing happily to my deaf muted tune, like the minstrel I so happily painted then. I didn't realize that I had gone somewhere I cannot go back from.