Played like a Guitar

Chapter 12 : The Museum

"Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up." - Pablo Picasso

Chapter painting: "Interiors" by Bradley Stevens.

***

"Hey, slow down, I can barely walk." - Jamie complained, grabbing his painfully full stomach.

"Stop crying, it's only a few blocks away." We slowed down the pace even though I was so used to walking rapidly with my active lifestyle, always rushing to be on time. Its odd how stress-free I felt considering the numerous assignment deadlines set mere days away. It's important to take a step back every once and a while, and stop stressing out. I guess we're all too busy finishing our responsibilities that we forget the little things in life that matter.

"That's why I chose this career path. I can't imagine myself running to an office everyday only to be glued to a desk for hours. Instead, I do things my way, where I want, whenever I want. I'm grateful for our success and that we managed to make a name of ourselves, knowing there are countless artists out there struggling to make ends meet. Maybe I'll raise a fund to help them out once I retire, but there's one hell of a journey to be completed until then." - he said optimistically.

His plans made me feel subtly worse about mine. He had a clear vision in mind, whereas I was finishing my studies, having zero clue whatsoever as to what would come afterwards. What if I don't find a job after all these years of hard work? All of my parent's money, down the drain they go...Okay, I need to chill and leave the existentialism for later. Who says I can't be successful?

"That would definitely be an amazing conclusion to your career, helping the youth out. Seems like you have it all figured out. Can't relate personally." - I chuckled rather anxiously.

"It's not like I just planned it all out in a second! My parents protested against my artistic pursuits for obvious reasons. They wanted me to become a man of respect, a lawyer, a pilot, a successful businessman but it's not what I envisioned for myself. Instead of wanting people to look at me from below, I simply wished to be happy, nothing more, nothing less." - he noted, and I sincerely believed him.

Even though he probably had more cash than he needed, he certainly didn't behave or look like a spoiled rich brat. His shoes, clothes and watch did not appear to be designer. It's not that he dressed badly, hell no, he could wear a garbage bag and still look better and more confident than I could ever while wearing my best clothes, it's just that he did not appear to be the rich "in-your-face" type, which proved his intentions matched his words. Respect.

We marched towards the center of a small town square with old-school cafés, expensive local boutiques, a christian church and museum. I never dared to enter the boutiques, even for window shopping, as the pieces were worth more than my entire existence, mostly reserved for special buyers, and the employees would always give me that judgmental stare as to why I was entering it in the first place when I can't even afford the cheapest item.

"I know I keep messing up your precious schedule, but could we stop by the church for a minute so I can light up a candle for my grandpa?" - he pointed his thumb towards the dark brown wooden church porch. I gestured back for him to lead the way. Compared to the monumental cathedrals that represented Rome's sacred religious commitment, the one we entered appeared particularly minuscule despite its average size. The mahogany pews and dark candelabras combined with the faint light piercing through the navy blue and yellow mosaics gave it an almost haunting, abandoned feeling. A grand chandelier embellished in gold with hundreds of tiny candles hung above our heads with engaging iconography, at the very end of a staircase featuring a dwarf-sized statue of Jesus.

He made a sign of the cross and placed a kiss on one of the icons, inserting a coin below and taking a taper candle for himself. We approached the plates containing beeswax and dozens more, adding his to the burning bunch, respecting the soothing silence of the holy setting. I didn't consider myself as extremely religious per say, but the feeling of security and calmness that these halls provided were hard to explain. You're not required to believe in God(s) to sense that internal peace within yourself, that state of serenity and soundness, no matter what atrocities you may have committed in the past. Staring at the fire, I wondered what the story was behind all those people, including his grandfather. His telepathy proved to be quicker once more.