Artist

He fancied himself an artist…a tortured, misunderstood soul crying into a wilderness that had no comfort or acknowledgement for him.  Smugly, he clung to his delusion and imagined that it set him apart…made him special…he imagined that he would, on one glorious day, be discovered and appreciated, lionized and understood at long, long last.

He was wrong, of course.

If he was an artist…if he was…he was an artist without an audience.  He was a dancer on distant, desolate stage.  He was a singer without a song that anyone else wanted to hear.  He was a dullard who fancied himself a visionary.  He was a warrior without real courage, a dreamer without realistic boundaries, a diplomat without portfolio, a lover who didn’t trust love, a demon stalker wrestling with ghosts made only of the gossamer tendrils of life as he imagined it should be.  He was another in the long line of sons of Job…and the long line of sons of Quixote.

He was a fool…a sometimes affable, sometimes angry and mean fool…but a fool nonetheless.

He fancied himself an artist…tilting at windmills and dragons, cursing fickle fate and imaginary gods, blaming everybody except the man in the mirror.

He was wrong, of course.