MARY JANE'S STORIES: THE ARTIST

MARY JANE'S STORIES: THE ARTIST

The room was tiny and dimly lit; only a timid light was visible from the window looking over the street. That light was as exhausted as the soul who tirelessly and carefully was making intensive efforts to compose rhymes and words that, through ingenious and immature manoeuvrings, were transformed into poetry, novels and memoirs. What originally was the simple leisure of a mind seeking freedom and frivolities now became the main outlet for those hands in need of communicating. The ticking of the keyboard precisely marked the culmination of her emotions' swirl that were burning into the young lady's heart. The indigence of the past along with the superficiality of some people she encountered shaped her timid and solitary heart, her tenebrous and gloomy eyes, and her elusive ways. "If man's word is the product of selfishness and deceit" she was thinking to herself "then may the chirping of the birds and the roar of the lion cheer me up!". She knew that it was insane of humans to believe in the superiority of their species and, after writing a few lines filled with anger and regret, she quit composing knowing that no man or woman would have appreciated such heavy judgement ever. After breathing in the clouds as a result of Mary Jane's combustion, she put her resentment aside and found some joy and pleasure in reminiscing and telling about some extraordinary humans' great deeds who, in complete solitude, accomplished astonishing achievements in protecting the environment or bringing majestic and valuable work of art to life. The young woman was convinced that solitude was probably a relevant aspect of the essence of art and the artist, and that only through solitude we become capable of deeply observing ourselves and answering the most intimate and arduous questions about our existence with reasoned methodicity. Those thoughts gave her the necessary courage to pursue the road down the drafting of those rhymes and tales mirror of her conscience. The real artist is not searching for any popular support, after all; a mythomaniac looking for idolatry or a money-maker speculating in ephemeral matters can't be called an artist. But who is she to utter a single word about it, that woman always and irretrievably feeling out of place, often incapable of recognizing her own reflection in the mirror? That so confused yet so perfect dualism was both annoying and magnetic at the same time. She didn't have much esteem for herself, but she was feeling some sort of mercy towards that young woman who was simply trying so hard to save her morality, goodness and purity of the heart. Every day I smile at that bizarre personality and the artist trapped within her, because I am that artist. Martina.