Eyes beside the heart

Let's be like the blind, and find beauty from what comes out of the heart and mind.

A young boy with a passion for art, looked outside his window everyday to draw the images that crossed his mind in different ways. A tune of a bird, the vibrant colors in the sky or even the laughs of a child would inspire his pencil to dance along the pages of his worn notebook all day. Though, they were all quite scruffy and plain, and no one really acknowledged them or believed it was his passion as he claimed. Yet, he knew it was. For the simple reason that; every time a drawing gets completed, he would suddenly feel the universe speaking to him in a language of pride and success, a language filling his heart with warmth and joy. It was not something he had created or had forced to happen, it was definitely more than that. It was a force, some kind of force floating around the sky that struck his soul every time a drawing is finished as a whole. It’s definitely more than that, he would say. But no one else encouraged him. No one else had believed it was something happening inside him, or perhaps �" they just couldn’t see it. They simply couldn’t see it from the drawings all over his notebook that gave an impression of a person’s vomit spilled onto his page. He would ask anyone, a person in the street or at a store, if they could compliment the work of art he had tried to draw. However, all the responses were the same. All of them were mumbling words coming out of a person who had prevented the truth to run out of his quivering mouth.

‘’The drawing is fine, my dear. Just try to build up your skills a bit more.’’ Each one of them would say. And they would all try to walk away as quickly as they can, with their lies dripping on the floor after each step they take. He would notice it, notice every lie they say, and walked away with a devastated face.

As he walked his way back home, an old poor man was sat on a dusty ground with nothing to protect him from the cold. The young boy felt his suffer wriggling up his veins and knelt down to lend him the jacket he wore.

‘‘It may not be your size, but I hope it will keep you warm.’’ The boy smiled.

“Thank you, very much. You have a beautiful heart, son. I wish you all the best of luck in your future, all the best of luck, all the best of luck.”

The young boy was dazed by his response, how a simple act could bring such light into someone’s eyes. Though the old man never stopped, and began to ask questions that hesitated the boy to walk away.

“How was your day? How is your family and life? I wish them all the best of luck in the future, all the best of luck.” He would repeat constantly.

“Thank you. My family are fine, I’m just feeling a bit down lately.” The boy sighed, and decided to sit beside him and share his emotions with the old man.

“Why is that may I ask? You have so much in your life, son. What could possibly bother you that much?”

The young boy looked at the ground, and began to tell his story.

“I love art. I love everything about it. It brings me all the happiness I’ve wanted to feel in life. It brings me freedom and joy and pride and everything. I would spend my entire life doing it, my entire life. It’s not something I just love, It’s something born inside me, it breathes the same air as me. Despite all that, no one really believes in me. As an artist, nothing could light up your day more than a person admiring your work. A person who would understand your madness, not all of it �" but at least support it. But no one did, no one really did. I guess my madness is not there to be admired or understood,  but to make me suffer more than anything else could.”  

The boy sighed again, yet this time �" it was much louder, much more stronger than before. While the old man smiled gently, after the boy’s words had touched his soul.

“It’s definitely something inside you as you say, may I see your work of art? I’ve been waiting for something to touch my heart all day.”

The boy began to doubt his decision, but showed him the drawing anyway.

“You can tell if you don’t like it, I really don’t mind anymore. It’s not like it’s the first time anyone has lied about my-“ 

“It’s beautiful.”

The boy turned his face towards the man, with shock and confusion and happiness. The word hit him, hit right through him like a thunderbolt. It was happening, it was really happening, he thought. A person had finally admired his work of art. He was startled. It was better than he had imagined, better than he had ever described. How one simple word can bring such light into someone’s eyes. Bring such happiness and jollity.

“You are not lying are you? I’ve told you it’s not the first time-“

“It’s beautiful.”

The old man repeated, with a smile still as gentle as before. There was not a single lie between his words, no hesitation or mumbling words. He said it, and he said it from his heart. There was no question or any doubt in his mind. He spoke with a voice swelled with beauty and honesty that made everything around him feel it too, even if his words were just ordinary.

“Oh my, thank you, thank you, thank you. You really do? You aren’t lying are you? No, you really aren’t. It’s really happening. It really has happened.”  The young boy hopped with joy and repeated the words to assure his appreciation. While the old man still smiled, hearing his joy creating melodies in the air.

“I will draw another. You want to see another right? I can draw a hundred more! I will come back to you with many drawings! Many!” And the boy gathered himself towards his house, beaming happiness and pride wherever he goes.

Throughout the days, the young boy would visit the old man every time he finishes a drawing. He would visit him weekly, daily, and at every hour or so. And the old man would continue admiring his work, each time better than before. They grew close, and exchanged with each other many stories and jokes. Gradually, the young boy’s drawings were picking up their way into masterpieces, a real work of art that was admired by schools and families. He would receive compliments at any time of the day, through phone calls or letters sent through his door. However, his visits to the old man were rare each time he became more known, and there was not enough time anymore, to chat with a man sitting at the end of the road.

After years pass by, the young boy’s work of art was found in famous exhibitions and museums. He had his paintings up on a stranger’s wall, and shelves packed with medals and awards. One day, he thought to himself for a while, and joined up the pieces of events that had helped him reach this high. How in the very beginning, he used to sleep on a damped pillow from all the tears he had cried. All the tears, which convinced him that he will never make it out in life. All the failures and rejections that filtered away his dreams and passion, which he spent working on every night. As the pieces were getting joined, an old memory sparked fireworks in his mind. He remembered. He remembered. A cold night and a poor man sitting on a dusty ground. He remembered. A young boy lending his jacket to keep the old man warm. He remembered. The old man admiring the boy’s doubtful art and madness. He remembered. The feeling of pride and happiness he had felt for the very first time. He remembered. The first person to ever bring joy and light in his eyes. And he remembered, remembered it all. The fireworks were flickering the memories towards the walls of his mind. He ran outside to reach the place where they sat by, in hope of seeing the old man’s gentle smile. He wanted to see him, wanted to meet him, wanted to hear his voice that echoed love and hope to the beats of his heart. He was so eager to tell him about everything, about all the success he had helped to create in his life. He planned the entire conversation in his head, all the stories and jokes they would talk about, like how it used to happen before. 

And finally, he had reached it. The same buildings, the same road. He was suddenly shifted into another world, where everything felt like how it happened at the time. The fireworks in his mind were all mangled together, creating a ball of glistening lights, glowing his entire mind with ravishing thoughts. Although, he couldn’t find him. He walked along the entire road, checked inside every building and store, but he was nowhere. Nowhere. Yet, it was the same exact place, the same buildings and same time of the day. The ball of glistening lights began to die out, and he was left with a somber, empty and a puzzled mind. He swung his head in different directions, each time seeing an illusion of him at different sights. He wanted to see him, wanted to talk to him, wanted to help him. But he was not there, not here or anywhere. His sadness weakened him at the knees, and he sat down on a ground with tears gulping his face down.  

“Are you alright sir? Do you need any help?” a young boy with worn, muddy clothes asked him.  

Slowly, he turned his face from the ground, and a blurry image of a young, poor boy was seen facing him.

“You alright sir? What seems to be the matter?” the boy asks again, demanding for an answer.

He looks at the young boy for a while, visualizing him as the old man.

“Don’t bother yourself. I’ve just lost a good friend of mine.” He finally says, while the words pull tears from his eyes.

“I’m terribly sorry, I’ve lost one as well.” The young boy sighed and sat beside him.

“You have?”

“Yeah. He was a very kind man, really kind. You could be having an awful day and he would light it up just by being beside you. He had that kind of spirit, each time you come near him, you feel different. You feel like nothing else could go wrong, nothing. You feel love and hope all around you.” The young boy looked at the ground, with memories tearing up the walls of his heart.

“Wow.” He slips the word with confusion, as if the young boy had stolen all the words he was preparing to use, all the words that would describe the old man’s compassionate character.

“Tell me more about him, that friend of yours.”

“He was so in touch with the world, with everything. He would sit at the end of road everyday, trying to catch every bit of beauty, noise and movement. Even though he couldn’t see anything, it was all a black sheet of darkness to him. He was blind, he really was. Yet, he refused to stay inside any building for protection. He would go outside and create this whole other world inside him, with every sound and every melody sparking a matchstick beneath him that would warm his heart and soul. He couldn’t see anything, nothing at all. But he didn’t need it, he didn’t need eyes to see beauty, he felt it. He really did. It was all happening inside him. A whole word inside him that could notice beauty and love and hope through his soul. I didn’t how he did it, how he was able to feel so much. Perhaps his eyes were beside his heart, beside the place where only love and beauty resides. Maybe that’s why, why he was able to see beauty in everything. It was magical, touching and beautiful. It saddens you because, people like him are so rare, so rare in this world. Everyone looks through their eyes, this technical thing that can do nothing but show you the wonders of God. His beautiful creations of oceans and skies.  But a few could really feel it, could really feel his beauty and power. And if I’ve learned a lesson from that friend of mine, then it’s to encourage everyone to be like the blind. To see beauty from what comes out of the heart and mind. To feel it. I spend so much time looking at faces, looking at things with a frown or a fake smile. But maybe that’s why I’m not as happy at all times. I need to feel it. The eyes cannot see hope, or joy. It has to be felt. And the best among us, are those who have their eyes beside their hearts, just like the blind.”

Suddenly, it hit him. That the boy did not use stolen words, but shared the feelings he had for the same old man. The old man who had never seen his work of art, yet felt it within his heart and soul. Even though darkness was the only thing his eyes saw, but he was able to see the beauty of his drawings and art more than any person with eyes could. And with such simple act, it changed his whole life and career. He was the first to understand his madness, to feel it vibrate a message of  passion without having to see it through his work. And so he cried, a cry so powerful it broke the clouds in the sky apart.

“Sir, have I said something wrong? Please don’t cry no more, your cries can break a person’s bone.”  The young boy turned to him.

“No, it’s not that. But that friend of yours is very much like mine. It’s true, as you say. Let us all be like the blind, and find beauty from what comes out of the heart and mind.”