Portrait of Flames

He wanted to paint his own portrait, a portrait that will make him immortal.

   “Is this my cause? Should I have a cause in life, or can I just paint because I want to paint?” he thought staring at his unfinished portrait. An old man with noticeable wrinkles on his face was bending down to pick up a piece of bread.

He decided to change the bread into something smaller but less valuable, a coin maybe.

   “This stirred Revolutions,” he thought. “I need something to stir the heart. Perhaps a drop of rain! My meds maybe,” he tittered as the alarm went off reminding him that it was time to take one of his heart meds.

   “I’m ordained dead, perhaps I should act dead. This is the cause, or is it the result?”

He poured a glass of wine, sipped it slowly and lit a cigarette. He watched the smoke spiral in white circles, took a deep breath and puffed the smoke. The first puff caused a bout of coughing. He stood in front of the mirror and watched his sallow face; wrinkles were beginning to form. He was too young to have wrinkles; he was too young to die.

He picked up the brush and changed the painting again; he drew a match. The old man lit the match. He watched the smoke spiral in circles and engulf the room. The smoke caused a bout of coughing until he could not breathe. Bread, rain, smoke and Fire!

The flames danced around the room in circles. The colors looked enchanting and he dropped his brush; they were the colors of revolution, the colors of life. The flames looked like Angels dancing to a divine tune.

   “This is a beautiful painting,” he thought. Nevertheless, was it really a painting?

The smoke overwhelmed him, and he fell to his knees gasping. There he saw his meds lying on the floor. Meds and Fire! The angels were still dancing closer, beckoning him to join this celestial Waltz. He reached out to touch the dancing flames; the flames licked his hands. The brush felt hot, the old man faded away and the painting started glowing with colors, so beautiful and radiant like the colors of the Revolution, like the colors of life and the colors of Death.

   “I’m too young to die,” he screamed.

   “I’m too tired to live,” answered the old man and reached out to dance with the angels.

Max O’Reilly