The Artist Who Never Was

The Artist Who Never Was- Futures Past

My legs prickled from the grass. Ignoring this fact, I sat as still as possible for a child of five years. I had the most exquisite creature telling me to chase my dreams for life. Though it did not speak, I was obliged to listen to the message from the winged patron of the sky. The peaceable red-breasted angel delivered wisdom to me that early summer morning.

I was compelled to draw the moment, capturing the spirit of the relationship between bird and child. One, on fragile legs like twigs. The other, innocently believing the impossible was possible. Together they could surpass the finite world and fly where make-believe was real and where dreams lived on solid ground.

My small hands put the blunted tip of the pencil to the surface of the notepad that rested on my lap. My vision remained fixed on the details of this divine friend: cautious eyes, small pointed beak, robust body on delicate legs. A few lines commenced the desired image; with each line a resulting hop from the subject. A short shuffle to bring me nearer, one elusive flutter from the muse.

The dream to portray the beauty of the moment didn’t waver. Yet with each movement of the pencil came a skip from the winged specimen. Eventually, as all creatures must leave this world, so did my subject fly from my life. I watched as the space between us grew with each beat of the wing.

Alone on the grass with itchy legs, a pencil in my little hand and a notepad on my lap. The beginnings of a dream were made, the fulfillment of the dream impossible. The dream flew away that morning while I sat as still as possible as the artist who never was.






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