The Painter & the Gold Fish
First, a little story.
Once there was a gold fish. She lived in a glass jar, kept in the corner of the room of a painter.
The painter was a maverick. In his work, aestheticism took precedence over realism. Each of his works, had a soul.
There were times when he could not bring life to his paintings.
He would then look at the fish - her eyes with the unspoken faith in his art ; the agility in her movements that would inspire him to revive his work..He'd then get his elan!
The fish had seen the room as her world. SHe had seen the painter as her only accomplice. She knew the Painter doted on her. She would look at him intensly involved in his work, from inside the jar.They would never talk to each other - ofcourse, how can a fish talk? She was never coached for the same.But still, she felt there was a passion between them.
There were times when she had seen him a little ruffled. And then the next moment she had seen him come close to her and touch her with his fingertips forming an impression on the glass. His fingertip would chase her if she would move a little. He was chasing her, but still there was so much independence. Although it was just a simple look from him, she'd feel like she was soaked not in water, but in the fervor of his love.
They were each other's consort - to say the least.
One day, the painter fell ill. He thought he could not take care of the gold fish anymore.
So he decided to part with her.
It hurt him. It made him sick. But he knew he had to do it, else the fish would die.
The fish cried. But her tears were mixed with water and could not be seen.
The fish yelled. But her screams drowned deep in the jar, just like her dreams..her life.
The fact remained - She was all, but a fish. And she was not coached to rebel. She was not coached to question.
What should the fish do?
:-(
Once there was a gold fish. She lived in a glass jar, kept in the corner of the room of a painter.
The painter was a maverick. In his work, aestheticism took precedence over realism. Each of his works, had a soul.
There were times when he could not bring life to his paintings.
He would then look at the fish - her eyes with the unspoken faith in his art ; the agility in her movements that would inspire him to revive his work..He'd then get his elan!
The fish had seen the room as her world. SHe had seen the painter as her only accomplice. She knew the Painter doted on her. She would look at him intensly involved in his work, from inside the jar.They would never talk to each other - ofcourse, how can a fish talk? She was never coached for the same.But still, she felt there was a passion between them.
There were times when she had seen him a little ruffled. And then the next moment she had seen him come close to her and touch her with his fingertips forming an impression on the glass. His fingertip would chase her if she would move a little. He was chasing her, but still there was so much independence. Although it was just a simple look from him, she'd feel like she was soaked not in water, but in the fervor of his love.
They were each other's consort - to say the least.
One day, the painter fell ill. He thought he could not take care of the gold fish anymore.
So he decided to part with her.
It hurt him. It made him sick. But he knew he had to do it, else the fish would die.
The fish cried. But her tears were mixed with water and could not be seen.
The fish yelled. But her screams drowned deep in the jar, just like her dreams..her life.
The fact remained - She was all, but a fish. And she was not coached to rebel. She was not coached to question.
What should the fish do?
:-(
