'God In The Artist'

Two strangers, gathered amongst the silence of a crowded square, sat humouring each other with musings of science, and art.

One of them is a scientist – a cold man for fifty years of whom it is said his first words were “God is my father”.

The second, a renowned painter, had a composition of only twenty years, yet confessed to having lived thirty more – or so it has been rumoured – to only her most highly regarded of acquaintances, and of whom it was often recounted her first words were “God is my father”.

The two had been arguing for quite some time, with absolute measure of their etiquette.

Upon their pervasion of shallow ears, one writer of thirty, with questionable poetic tastes, decided to settle the frustrations of the scientist and the artist. His intentions as a writer and fellow being, were unclear to his onlookers, as had been the case since the start of his birth, though the question he posed proved to quell both their interests.

“Dear scientist, who has gathered so much truth, and wasted so little time – and you; dear artist, who has wasted so much truth, and gathered so little time: what is the most beautiful thing of all?”

The scientist paused, alarmed that the artist had burst into tears, before professing;

“Surely, the most beautiful thing of all, must be death! For it is eternal, unchanged, unfettered, and always arrives on time!”

The artist, wiping away her tears, looked to the writer with heaven’s envy in her eyes, and whispered,

“I don’t know”.