"The face is a picture of the mind with the eyes as its interpreter."
― Marcus Tullius Cicero
(Tirchanus' POV)
It is a beautiful Friday morning. I step out of the apartment and take a deep breath to admire the city of Kalimbahin. The sky's in a perfect sky blue with streaks of white, which covers the pastel city of greens, browns and reds. The smell of dew from the small rose garden beside me energizes me from within as the sun's rays of light touches my skin. The city is a product of a child's dream; an aspiration of what people wants the world to be: peaceful, simple yet vibrant and colorful. Not to mention, it is clean.
From home, I walk along the sidewalks and I am greeted by friendly faces; how their lips curve into a sweet, heartwarming smile. This is what I wake up to every morning and it is so refreshing and light on the feeling. I continue to picture out what I shall paint next. Could the tall building near the intersection work? How about those kids playing tag? Maybe those two couples sitting next to each other, hugging and talking sweetly might work? The possibilities are endless but my thoughts stop when I have arrived in my small open shop. It is rather a little run down but it is spacious enough to store in my works. Ever since I got here, I have been earning quite fairly on my works. There are times where it was just a slow business day but for the most part, it is doing well. I usually paint on Saturdays and Sundays then sell them on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays.
I open the store only to find my good friend Amura, sleeping on the floor and snoring loudly with drool dripping down from his open mouth to the floor and yes, I face this situation a lot more often. The last time he didn't miraculously sleep on the floor was over a month ago when he visited his friend's house but then got kicked out because he was caught stealing some jewelry so he slept in the backyard. Although he has a house to live, it was quite far from Kalimbahin and plus, he lost his house key. As soon as I have enough money to keep, I need to buy him a duplicate key for his home or even a car. However, his advertising skills are amazing and ever so often, he would tell me a lot of things that he would read on the Internet. Call me prehistoric or some caveman but being in my mid 40s, I have cared less about smartphones and wireless chargers or some small fridge that can fit only one can of soda which you can plug into your computer, all for a price of a kidney and a lung and would rather watch TV or listen to some radio drama while I wash my clothes, cook food or paint.
I rapidly poke him on his sides until he shows signs of living: groaning and sitting up for a minute before looking at me and smiling like a dork. "Hey, Chan," he says with a wide grin on his face. "You look like you've been drinking last night," I say to him as I place down the paint and brushes on the table, "that, or you have been trying to find your keys on the canals again." Amura's eyes widen in shock, and he then proceed to smell himself. "I don't think canal diving is a good idea if I am going to be looking for my keys, Chan," he says with a confused look on his face, questioning me if I ever think ever so badly of him. "Well, you smell of dirty water and alcohol all at the same time so better explain to me about that," I point out his scent while I grab the easel that is standing across me. Amura sighs with annoyance and says, "Some couple decided to 'accidentally' spill brandy on me and laugh while driving away in a sports car and I was just minding my own business of walking alone in the street. Plus, I didn't bring in clean clothes because you know how far my home is." I arrange the displays on the wall, simply thinking of what he was doing last night. "You were buying dinner for yourself, I suppose," I guess instantly but looking at him, he gives a small shake and says, "I was in my friend's house because she was home alone." I shoot a "what do you mean" look but he quickly dismisses it, "Nothing happened, Chan. Keep your mind out of the damn gutter." I chuckle slightly at his annoyance towards me. He may be 34 but he has the mind and the awkwardness of a teen hitting puberty sometimes.
"Look, continue to grab those people into buying my work. I need to go ahead and paint something," I say to him as I grab my materials, slightly having a hard time balancing the canvas and the easel on one arm and the paint materials on the other hand. Amura gives me a thumbs up and went to the restroom to freshen up. How the hell is he going to freshen up when his stench reeks hard of a hungover? I shake off the thoughts and step outside. I am thinking of painting in the park where the English Oak trees stands in front of a backdrop of mountains in the distance and the sky is beautifully blue with streaks of white as clouds as children fly kites and play "tag, you're it." The image comes clear in my head and I sigh in relief and start to walk.
There is something in Kalimbahin that cannot be expressed into words, let it be a poem. Every corner you see, there is something to smile about or to be in awe about. Whether it is children playing hopscotch and patintero or couples talking about anything under the sun, it is radiating with positivity and beauty. To top it all off, the natural surroundings Kalimbahin glows is pastel and picture perfect. I can't help but stare at the pretty pinks, greens and yellows of the city. However, I am sure that there is more to this small city than what I see. I know that there is depth to it; something that is beautiful but what do I really know? I am here for two months and even to this day, I can't seem to find my way through this city despite of its size because I am just hypnotized by how beautiful it is. No words can describe it, not even a great poet.
I find myself in the park, facing the English Oak trees with the mountains as the backdrop. I sit down on a large bolder resting on the ground and set up the easel and canvas. I unpack the paint materials and set them on the floor near me. I stand up, marveling at the scenery and a picture paints in my head: a surreal sky of red and orange, standing over the mountain of blue and the trees stand tall with green and orange. Autumn Sky… Fall in the Middle… Orange. I have found a perfect title for it. I take a deep breath, ready to paint…
…but it would be just the same as the others I painted before. I sit down, my head hung and closing my eyes. I am contemplating on what kind of artist paint almost the exact same thing. No wonder why I am earning only a few. I am not widening my view enough to see more than what is there. I mean, anyone with a great hand can paint what I pictured in my head but better. It's no use. It won't work.
As I pack up my things after a disappointing hour in the park, I notice that the sky has suddenly turned a gradient of dark blue and black. Droplets of water hit my skin and the ground beneath me and they drop gradually faster and harder.
Crap!