Quiet Man

He was a quiet man.

You could see the pain behind his eyes. Fifty years old, or so. Black. His salt and peppered dreadlocks were bound above his crown where they spiraled back behind where his cortex brain laid comfortably within his skull. He looked weathered by the harsh conditions of time and experience. Despite those moments of trials, he smiled to a young man sitting in front of him, “Are you an art student?” he asked as if time had lost it’s control of his countenance. “No, I’m not.” the young man answered surprised by the question although realizing the quiet man only asked based on the paint stains on his jeans. “Do you go to the school here?” the train shifted from one side to another as it pushed up a hill making a turn around the bend while the quiet man’s smile still resided upon his face. “No, I don’t.” the young man answered directly. “I’m an artist.” he continued as the quiet man slowly winked and nodded his head in his direction. “What do you do?” the quiet man reexamined. The young man looked upon the quiet man as he saw years being stripped away from his life. His deadlocks faded from salt and pepper coloring to jet black. The pain behind his eyes changed into a fiery resolve. The quiet man transformed into a younger man in his twenties. Without answering the young man sat in his seat on the train ride that would change his life. The man full of life spoke for several moments about how art saved his life on many occasions. He spoke about all the things he created over years of his life. He was full of energy in that moment. They parted ways as the train reached its last stop. They shook hands and said their goodbyes. As the quiet younger man walked off the young man saw him gain his years back. He saw his jet black dreads gain some grays. He saw his walk slow down and turn into a limped walk. He saw a quiet man. He could see the pain behind his eyes.

Art has a way of transforming, even the most troubled souls, into what we once were.

I admonish you, keep creating…


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