The Writer

There is a park bench across me. That spot used to be occupied by a painter – a former regular of this park. Every day, that painter would come to that same spot, sit on that same bench, take out the same materials from the same bag – and paint.

But the painter comes to this place no more.

His face is now rarely seen in these parts. He now has a new territory to conquer. A gentleman’s house. A mansion. A stately manor.

At least, that’s what I assume and presume.

After all, I was there when the old gentleman came up to him. I had looked on when they held that quiet conversation. And I had listened in when they struck that deal – when the old gentleman fulfilled that rugged painter’s dreams.

The old gentleman fulfilled that rugged painter’s dreams.

I imagine the artist with the messy pony tail and stubby goatee in one of the gentleman’s marbled rooms. I laugh, knowing how he must stand out so terribly, yet still fit in so beautifully, into that dignified setting.

I envision him taking out his used and weathered tools, fingering them gently as he explains their uses and functions to a wide-eyed lad. I smile, visualizing the twinkle in his eyes as he shows the boy how to make colours in a canvas come alive.

I picture him walking around the old gentleman’s rooms and gardens. I see him soaking up the beauty, drinking in the sights, conjuring ideas for new works of art, dreaming up new themes for new paintings.

I imagine him living out what I believe are his dreams.

I wonder if he would miss coming to this spot. If he would miss watching and painting the people here. If he would miss – well, simply miss the city park.

But I believe saying goodbye to this park had been an effortless feat for him. Judging from his paintings, I believe that he has been through more difficult goodbyes.

But I – I still am a regular to this park. Here I watch lives lived out. Here I watch dreams, desires, and destinies fulfilled. Here I witness how sacrifices are paid off, how obstacles are hurdled, how odds are victoriously beaten.

And here I write them down.

I’ll never find myself confined to a stately marbled house. That is the painter’s path, but this is mine.

As I use words to colour in the spaces of imagination; and as the painter uses his brush and oils to fill in the white of his canvas – so differ our paths and ways.

I may walk away, but I always return for another day.

And so I sit here. I watch. I wait. And with pen in hand, I write away.

I see a woman with a sweet face and delicate curls walking in the distance. She appears to be searching for something. Or someone.

My pen is in my hand and I write away.

>>> (Back to The Old Gentleman)

>>> (IT all started HERE)

7 thoughts on “The Writer”

  1. Wow! I’m wrong pla in the first place. Hindi po pala kayo ang painter… kayo po pala ang writer. haha. well, nice story po for the painter and for the writer also. now, the story has found its end. We anticipate for another story… haha! wow. galing niyo po Ma’am! Hope I can also be a good writer… :D

  2. @regine: I guess I am. : ) Pero at some point, we could all identify with the painter — that strange, yet-oh-so-familiar former park regular. : D

    More stories will come later. But for now, we have to let Natty go.

    You can do it. Just. Write. : )

    God bless!

  3. @nanny: Wow. Thank you so much as well. : )

    Hmmm. What she sees — the one in the last part of this story here?

    Or in the daily course of her life…? : )

    Hehe. Thank you po ulit. : D

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