When the past met the present
by philosophy.boat
Hallo dear readers,
Today I wrote a story, a story about a man, a man with a forgotten dream. To become a painter, to create a world of colors. An unexpected event will awaken this dream. What will be his reaction?
Let's dive in :)
It was afternoon, and like every afternoon, he was walking through the park. Along the same paths, beneath the same trees, beside the same stream. Through the same face, the same self. He didn’t feel the need to change; he was comfortable with who he was.
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But this time, beneath the same tree, there was a difference. There was a woman, holding a golden mirror. Every person who left there looked thoughtful, as if wrestling with their own reflection. So curiosity grew inside him, and he decided to approach—to confront something new, something new within the familiar. Would it beautify the ordinary, or not?
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“Hello, what is that mirror?” he asked the woman.
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“It tells you the truth,” she answered, her tone serious.
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He looked into the mirror, but it didn’t show what he saw—it showed what he believed he could see, if the ‘if’ had happened. He didn’t see himself as he was used to. Instead, he saw himself as he might have been. He wasn’t wearing his usual clothes, but a loose linen shirt, loose fabric trousers—clothes not clean, but stained with paint. Clothes he would have worn if, back then, on those days, he had made the decision to become a painter.
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But the brush does not speak on its own, and he didn’t want to speak to others. Heavy were the words, heavy the words upon the brush, and even heavier around it. He didn’t see the park he came to every day, but a desert—the desert he might have discovered if he had made that decision back then. A journey far away, far and unknown. And the unknown always brings fear.
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“Who is this?” he asked.
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The woman smiled. “He is who you could have become.”
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“This mirror lies. Not the truth!”
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“Why?”
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“It listened to your heart.”
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His heart responded, beating strongly in his chest. Along with it came all those memories—the moments he had spent painting for hours, dreaming of journeys through the desert. He felt his heart say, This is what I wanted to tell you. He looked up to the sun, and it smiled warmly at him, saying, We were together then, we are together now, we will be together forever.
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This image was not the present—it was the meeting of past and present. The more he looked at the mirror, the more he felt himself dissolve before it.
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“I am not this person!”
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“Are you sure?” said the woman.
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“Are you joking with me?” he said, raising his hand.
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“You are,” she smiled.
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“But I am not a painter!”
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“You are a painter—the choices you made are not those of a painter.”
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“What choices?”
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“Think about it. Why does this mirror lie?”
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“What do you mean?”
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“It lies not because you aren’t a painter, but because you chose not to become who you truly are.”
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The man looked again into the mirror. This time he felt it close to him. It was as if he was seeing himself through someone else’s eyes. He wanted to approach, to touch him—but his choices wouldn’t allow it. First, he needed to leave them behind—or rather, replace them with those of the painter.
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“Don’t be sad. It’s never too late,” said the woman, placing a hand on his shoulder.
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“Can I still?”
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“Of course. The sky is always there, waiting for you.”
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Then the man left, his gaze fixed on the sky. His wings were his brush. His purpose: to fly. Suddenly, clouds gathered. And as long as he didn’t move toward them, they would come toward him. Would they block him once again?
by philosophy.boat
Also available on youtube: CLICK HERE
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