Art Riot {District 9 - FIN}
Apr 4, 2017 13:51:31 GMT -5
Post by napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. on Apr 4, 2017 13:51:31 GMT -5
Art "Arthur" Riot
People say art needs to be abandoned; and that’s what they all did.
Everyone doesn’t see the value of art here. They only see the plain paper underneath the masterpiece on the canvas. They only see the little mistakes in the talented strokes. They only spot the dull hues in the vivid colors—orange, pink, yellow and blue, etc. They scowl at the errors in the arts, they don’t appreciate the entirety of the artwork. They poke at the mistakes. People are creatures of habit, after all, ones who search for mistakes and errors and their ignorance making them blind to the true beauty of a painting. They only see the mistakes. And, it all leads to a riot.
Riot. Perhaps that’s all they saw me as. Ever since I was born, that’s what I have been. A riot. A complexity. A chunk in the teeth. It’s the only possibly theory I can make because, no one names their children ‘riot’ lovingly. They didn’t love me. They opened me to this world to experience its pain, to get wounded and to perish soon after. No good came from it. Mum used to whisper to me in the dark, running her hands through my locks, tell me about their smoothness and how I did good using that hair conditioner she stole. She would always compliment me how she does it for me. How she wants her beauty boy to be a work of an art and she was the artist, painting life on a blank canvas. She didn’t know that she was smearing over the artwork that is already on the canvas — though a part of me doubts it. I am my own man. I paint my own stories, I pave my own route. There is no fate written for me in the stars and the universe doesn’t have me in its grasp.
I am my own person.
But, I was in their shadow. I didn’t try to escape it until a few months ago. And, a few months, we weren’t this much of a drama show, this much of a dysfunctional family. We still used to sit around, near the hearth while the sky cried outside; I watched the water rivulets roll down the window but Mue’s gaze was fixated into the fire, the flames reflected in her wide orbs. Mue and I were different. We were siblings, same blood pulsating through our veins, the same freckles on our faces, the same height (5’10 – and she said she is going to be taller than me in the future), same smooth, threads growing out of our skull in the color of the soil, etc. But, while I was the light, she was the shadow. I was life and she was death. I was water and she was fire. I was the scintillating stars in the midnight star and she was the space between. We used to argue about where to play daily. She liked the twilight woods and I wanted to run on the golden hillsides. I liked flower crowns and she tortured ants. One day, I stumble upon her inflicting harm upon a kitten and a recognition flash from the moment I see the darkness in her marbles. She had more of mother and father’s blood.
I was the outcast of the family.
So, I removed myself like a wound, a surgeon’s knife dicing me off and scarlet tainting my roots. But, there was a saying—that you couldn’t distance yourself from family. Family was a hurricane and you always manage to get struck in its wind circulation, torpedoing everything in its radius within its blood is crackling in your veins. A water vortex your ship infinitely faces, ferocious tides clustering and opening up a chasm into copper-bottomed depths. Family didn’t care about fragility, had no interest in surveying what I was made up of it. It just drew me into the eye of the storm and I shredded and cracked and dispersed, because I was glass, I was brittle, I was fragile. From the corners of my eyes, I spot Mue and she doesn’t shatter into minuscule figments. She told me she was marble during the variety of fistfights we had. Shocker? Maybe. Were siblings supposed to even get into fistfights? Do I seem weak enough to lose to my own sister? Because, I always did.
However, we did share our similarities—aside from physical ones, Mue was also attempting to escape the same storm I was caged in. Thus, one grim night, we strategized to sprint together, to clench our fists and charge through the wild winds into a realm of freedom. “We are going to get away from them—together.” Her voice is steel tempered with the fieriest of flames and it had the aptitude to persuade people, because I had thrown my trust in her. The night was young. And as we proceed, thoughts ignite in my skull like fireworks bursting in an ebony sky. I think about the events that had led to this—to the point of even trying to fight back against a hurricane, no matter how gory the bloodshed will be. Months ago, the fire in our hearth was extinguished. Only darkness existed and hours seemed infinite—especially when my folk had sent mum into a stage of pain and despair and tears. He shouts, syllables erupting like a canon. “You screwed up! You risked us being killed by the peacekeepers! Could you steal something discreetly?” The moment mum began to feel powerless and like the prey in her situation, she would get her chance to be the predator, the intimidator with us. Screeches and verbal abuses festered into dark, pastel bruises on our limbs.
Mue ran in front of me and her hair caught me by surprise as I saw it blending in with the darkness. Pants and harsh breaths killed the silence of the night along with our hurried treads on the cold ground. We were running barefoot, feet bruised and abraded, and a fence loomed before us. “Mue! I—I can’t climb over this!” It pained, to admit and to display her strength in comparison with mine. She is the crackling inferno and I am the light drizzle. I evaporate in the end. “Mue! Mue!” Continuously, I called out for her but, she didn’t turn. Didn’t look back. The darkness devoured her and I advanced after her, only to stagger forward and tumble down because my foot had clashed against a jagged rock.
When dawn cracked, I was back at the doorstep of mum and dad’s house and more bruises and abrasions were added to my ever-growing collection. I was beginning to think about counting off tallies on my bedroom wall when our home’s door was broken from its hinges and white uniforms came swarming in. “Hands up!” and both of them were shackled, ambling away from the house. And, these few months accelerated, pastel buds blossomed into cherry petals and trees branched out into grooves. I ended up with a bunch of orphans and misfits and even though violence, bruises and pain occurred on a daily basis, I felt like I belonged. For once, I didn’t mind being a hideous art. But, every time I see a fence or a trail of ebony hair, my skin crawls.
Everyone doesn’t see the value of art here. They only see the plain paper underneath the masterpiece on the canvas. They only see the little mistakes in the talented strokes. They only spot the dull hues in the vivid colors—orange, pink, yellow and blue, etc. They scowl at the errors in the arts, they don’t appreciate the entirety of the artwork. They poke at the mistakes. People are creatures of habit, after all, ones who search for mistakes and errors and their ignorance making them blind to the true beauty of a painting. They only see the mistakes. And, it all leads to a riot.
Riot. Perhaps that’s all they saw me as. Ever since I was born, that’s what I have been. A riot. A complexity. A chunk in the teeth. It’s the only possibly theory I can make because, no one names their children ‘riot’ lovingly. They didn’t love me. They opened me to this world to experience its pain, to get wounded and to perish soon after. No good came from it. Mum used to whisper to me in the dark, running her hands through my locks, tell me about their smoothness and how I did good using that hair conditioner she stole. She would always compliment me how she does it for me. How she wants her beauty boy to be a work of an art and she was the artist, painting life on a blank canvas. She didn’t know that she was smearing over the artwork that is already on the canvas — though a part of me doubts it. I am my own man. I paint my own stories, I pave my own route. There is no fate written for me in the stars and the universe doesn’t have me in its grasp.
I am my own person.
But, I was in their shadow. I didn’t try to escape it until a few months ago. And, a few months, we weren’t this much of a drama show, this much of a dysfunctional family. We still used to sit around, near the hearth while the sky cried outside; I watched the water rivulets roll down the window but Mue’s gaze was fixated into the fire, the flames reflected in her wide orbs. Mue and I were different. We were siblings, same blood pulsating through our veins, the same freckles on our faces, the same height (5’10 – and she said she is going to be taller than me in the future), same smooth, threads growing out of our skull in the color of the soil, etc. But, while I was the light, she was the shadow. I was life and she was death. I was water and she was fire. I was the scintillating stars in the midnight star and she was the space between. We used to argue about where to play daily. She liked the twilight woods and I wanted to run on the golden hillsides. I liked flower crowns and she tortured ants. One day, I stumble upon her inflicting harm upon a kitten and a recognition flash from the moment I see the darkness in her marbles. She had more of mother and father’s blood.
I was the outcast of the family.
So, I removed myself like a wound, a surgeon’s knife dicing me off and scarlet tainting my roots. But, there was a saying—that you couldn’t distance yourself from family. Family was a hurricane and you always manage to get struck in its wind circulation, torpedoing everything in its radius within its blood is crackling in your veins. A water vortex your ship infinitely faces, ferocious tides clustering and opening up a chasm into copper-bottomed depths. Family didn’t care about fragility, had no interest in surveying what I was made up of it. It just drew me into the eye of the storm and I shredded and cracked and dispersed, because I was glass, I was brittle, I was fragile. From the corners of my eyes, I spot Mue and she doesn’t shatter into minuscule figments. She told me she was marble during the variety of fistfights we had. Shocker? Maybe. Were siblings supposed to even get into fistfights? Do I seem weak enough to lose to my own sister? Because, I always did.
However, we did share our similarities—aside from physical ones, Mue was also attempting to escape the same storm I was caged in. Thus, one grim night, we strategized to sprint together, to clench our fists and charge through the wild winds into a realm of freedom. “We are going to get away from them—together.” Her voice is steel tempered with the fieriest of flames and it had the aptitude to persuade people, because I had thrown my trust in her. The night was young. And as we proceed, thoughts ignite in my skull like fireworks bursting in an ebony sky. I think about the events that had led to this—to the point of even trying to fight back against a hurricane, no matter how gory the bloodshed will be. Months ago, the fire in our hearth was extinguished. Only darkness existed and hours seemed infinite—especially when my folk had sent mum into a stage of pain and despair and tears. He shouts, syllables erupting like a canon. “You screwed up! You risked us being killed by the peacekeepers! Could you steal something discreetly?” The moment mum began to feel powerless and like the prey in her situation, she would get her chance to be the predator, the intimidator with us. Screeches and verbal abuses festered into dark, pastel bruises on our limbs.
Mue ran in front of me and her hair caught me by surprise as I saw it blending in with the darkness. Pants and harsh breaths killed the silence of the night along with our hurried treads on the cold ground. We were running barefoot, feet bruised and abraded, and a fence loomed before us. “Mue! I—I can’t climb over this!” It pained, to admit and to display her strength in comparison with mine. She is the crackling inferno and I am the light drizzle. I evaporate in the end. “Mue! Mue!” Continuously, I called out for her but, she didn’t turn. Didn’t look back. The darkness devoured her and I advanced after her, only to stagger forward and tumble down because my foot had clashed against a jagged rock.
When dawn cracked, I was back at the doorstep of mum and dad’s house and more bruises and abrasions were added to my ever-growing collection. I was beginning to think about counting off tallies on my bedroom wall when our home’s door was broken from its hinges and white uniforms came swarming in. “Hands up!” and both of them were shackled, ambling away from the house. And, these few months accelerated, pastel buds blossomed into cherry petals and trees branched out into grooves. I ended up with a bunch of orphans and misfits and even though violence, bruises and pain occurred on a daily basis, I felt like I belonged. For once, I didn’t mind being a hideous art. But, every time I see a fence or a trail of ebony hair, my skin crawls.
