Graffiti

Graffiti

By Dayaan W.


Act I

4:20 AM
Cold morning in Prague, he shuffles through the snow,
Runs back because he hasn't shut his door.
Dressed in a cheap Chinese import Diadora track suit, his breath is steady despite the biting frost building around his spectacles.
Blinded for a moment,
he wipes away,
puts them back on,
regains composure, and makes for the Old Town Square.



Act II

Almost deserted, he surveys his canvas. The old fountain forming the center seems to have frozen as it stands lifeless, staring back at him in equal indifference.
A pigeon defecates into the frozen fountain bowl, a futile attempt at breathing life into the barren square.
The artist smiles, and wastes no more time, as the window now, for his magnum opus, is almost fully shut.
He tears away the breakaway, stripper track pants he'd borrowed from his nephew the previous night,
takes a deep breath,
exhales,
and walks into the open square as pigeons beat a hasty retreat for the skies. If the slippery cobblestones could fly, one would imagine that they would follow suit, had they any idea of the events that would follow early that morning at Wenceslas.
He takes yet another deeper breath, squats down, not so low that his derrier would kiss the smooth cobble stones below, yet not so high that one would sit on a chair, he needed it just right.


Act III

A perfectionist, like any artist worth a second look of evaluation, that morning , gazing up at the Tyr Cathedral, he did not have to stop himself from instinctive prayer, there was no need because..

...THIS, truly this!, is what his life was all about, this was what he had lived for, and this...

...would be something!.

The cold would, to a layman, effectively freeze a pair of supple, tender cheeks together, restricting the flow of feces, but the artist was...well, the artist. He was a professional, a cut above the rest.
He, of course, had accounted for the cold weather, and had trained himself to loosen almost every ligament and tendon that connected his bone and flesh together with simple exercise.
Tightening and loosening the muscles below the hips, he soon thawed out the frost until all numbness below his waist, had all but gone.


Act IV

Steady breath, he slowly released his payload of yesterdays stroganoff onto the almost inviting cobble, and waddles forward proudly, with the finesse and gait, of a well decorated, duck general.
It had begun to snow again, tiny flakes were gradually descending onto what had now become, a well decorated town square,
"Perfect!"
He thought to himself, "the icing!, it comes forthwith!".
Anyone watching would have not believed that so much, could have come out of a vessel so small.
Was he human?, no in fact, he was not.
He was an artist, THE artist.
Thirty minutes later, the townsfolk were already gathered, staring in disbelief.
Some fainted, others fought through the cold for words that never came, some even screamed.
The majority of the audience just stood silently, as if the artist had a thousand fingers resting on everybody's lips. Nobody dared move, the local law enforcement had let their batons slip from their hands into a slow swing around their wrists.
It was too late.
It was complete.


Act V

The artist could hardly stand. he'd lost a lot of energy, having completed his masterpiece that stretched atleast half a kilometre across the square in diameter, on both sides.
He had just completed the first and largest copy of The Vitruvian Man using only fecal matter. He had earlier planned to add the finishing touches to the eyes, face, hair, lips but was too fatigued, as was his audience.
Now facing the Tyn Cathedral to the North, he sighed a prayer, and collapsed on the street.
The air was ripe with paint, to the point where even the most iron-stomached were finding it difficult not to regurgitate their breakfasts onto the already defiled ground.
No, the old cobble stones had had enough.
The first voice heard was a woman, cutting through the silence like a swing of a rusty axe on flesh.
"This is an outrage!".
The last syllables cut short due to her almost vomiting after breathing the dense air.
The Town Mayor stepped forward, over the motionless body of The Artist.
Taking a deep breath,
exhaling,
he said,
"No."
"This is art".

Not for the week

I received some troubling news yesterday. I can't say it didn't affect me upon hearing the whole thing.

But what really gets to me is the days to follow. I subconsciously envision every aspect of my daily life, adding several mental weights and amusing myself by thinking about how long it would take for me to drop to the floor in an almost catatonic state.

Unfortunately, this is the only solace that I can derive from said situation.

Am I scared about the present?, or the not so distant few weeks?.

Fuck it.

'Fuck this' indeed.