There are many types of people. When the city lights go dark, some panic. Some send their families down to the basement should fire erupt from the sky and chase away the stone and metal, leaving ash and charred rubble. But some others, the same ones who will wear themselves on their own sleeves, and paint rooms colours that sound like a stanza of a joyful Yeats, these people will go upwards; climb on to the roof of their buildings – the grey flats that reach for a sky which wants little to do with them – and lay out a picnic blanket. They will lie down, and stare up at a sky usually hidden by the glare of the lights from office buildings, and office workers commuting home.
And when the lights did go off, some people did panic, some fled. But unnoticed in the dark were footprints on the stairs left by bare feet trodden in paint, with colours in the hues of early autumn, the only ones which were going upstairs.
Lying down in paint-covered denim, autumn colours matted in her hair, a paintbrush still wet in the front pocket of the overalls, a girl stared up at the stars above. It was amazing how well you could see the sky with the lights out. Reflected in her eyes were a million stars clothed in the purple clouds of the Milky Way. Did you know there are more trees on Earth then stars in the galaxy? She knew, although she couldn’t remember from where. She never could. The world was an awesome place, as were her creatures. Sirens wailed below, and the windows mirrored blue lights racing down the road, a fire engine. She looked out across the city and saw orange flame illuminating the transformer station, as if taking over from the lights. Blue lights swarmed like pretty insects going about their lives, and the fire fought against the water hoses, exploding outwards, and then running back as a child tentatively puts a toe in the pool to test the water. Eventually though, the fire gave in to the elemental control of the firefighters, and the city returned to its natural state of nature.
They could decide on some paint-spattered overalls, and a white T-shirt, also stained in colour, because stains, like scars tell stories, as a testament to existing hard enough to live
A lucky person will see the sunrise 30,000 times. It will crest the hills, radiate across the sky and clouds, which welcome it with soft pinks and oranges. The birds will wake, as will the world. As will the people. They will rise, wash themselves and commute. They will work, and save money, and work again. They’ll take a holiday once a year, then go back to work with their half-formed tan. They’ll loosen the tie around their neck as they curse the sun for heating up the office block, now made an oven. They’ll count down the days to 65, their pension, if they’re lucky. And then they’ll relax. Loosen the tie. They’ll sit down, watch the news, cook, take up a hobby. 6000 sunrises left.
Or
They could wake, rise and smile. Open the windows and look out across the buildings to see the sun greet them, and the sky greet it in turn with its soft pinks and oranges. They could open their wardrobe, and choose what to wear today. They could decide on some paint-spattered overalls, and a white T-shirt, also stained in colour, because stains, like scars tell stories, as a testament to existing hard enough to live. They could look at their messy hair in the mirror and laugh. They could go outside and get some fresh air, get a pastry and eat in the park, watching the beautiful dogs and their beautiful walkers stroll around under the shade-shelter palms of the oak and chestnut trees. They could meet some of their friends, plan the next beach trip, talk about everything joyful. They could go home, take out their paints and look at their walls, looking for a spot on their wall they haven’t already tapestried in colour and picture, dancing to their music and paint, living. They curse under their breath when they knock over a paint tin, and then look around in panic as the lights go out, before noticing the glow through the window. They could run straight out the door and up the stairs before some people have even found their torches. And they could gaze up at the stars, far above their head but still finding them, sending their light across the galaxy to reflect in their eyes.
Faé lived. She breathed. In colour and joy. She danced in the rain in a T-shirt as people walked by her in raincoats, grappling with umbrellas. She sang in her kitchen to a playlist longer than the blood vessels that pumped the blood through her that pushed her, dragged her to do more than exist. To live in excitement and wonder. She loved, fell in love each day with a new sunrise, a new colour, a new dog. She passed people on the street and pondered. What a shame that one can never understand another person. For only part of something infinite can ever be comprehended by the human mind, infinite unto itself. A doctor can see no more than illness in a stranger, a teacher no more than a grade. But an artist, maybe they can see more. Maybe. Experience teaches empathy, the only chance for compassion.
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She wrote all sorts of these thoughts down, taking lessons from them, when she can remember them. She loved those little quotes, that teach you about life and love in only a few lines, with a depth more profound than language could be capable of, but she couldn’t ever remember them. That’s why she started writing them on the walls.
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