Obsessed

I've been painting ever since I was a kid - it's a picture I can never get tired of. Four oblong coconuts hanging fancily from a tree on the beach. A woodhouse erected right next to the pine with a fence securing the backyard. A turtle crossing the cobbled path that meanders to the door. A boat turned upside down and tied to the pier. The sea touching this solitary island with the smallest of waves. Mountains bordering it far behind, hiding the sun behind them, but letting its warm and mellow rays reflect on the calm lake. No clouds to grey the evening. A couple of birds I could never name. For 15 years, I've painted the same picture, with a few modifications that gave birth to a number of versions of the original. The boat would go sailing, bobbing in the sunset. The turtle vanished sometimes. Rocks and grass grew on the side. The mountains grew in numbers. But the badly drawn tree and the 2-Dimensional house never changed. My father said every kid draws something like this - apparently. It runs in the family. The ubiquitious image that springs in mind when you learn the words sun and house and tree to remember the alphabet as a toddler. I sulked. And in consoling myself, painted a grey version of my little island. I call it the Dream. It was never publicized because my artistic style is nothing worth presenting. But my Dream holds a special place in my heart, purely because it is one of those passions that have survived my childhood and teenage, drawing respect for having held my interest thus far. I cannot comprehend what that picture tells me, but it was my last hope when I had a "Drawing Book" to complete in Grade 4. The versions I mentioned earlier were most useful in filling up the first and last few pages, each a little different from the other. The Dream was my best friend during long, tiring lectures at University where, unfortunately, I wasn't the one lecturing. A touching rendition of my feelings for those who were dear - the perfect "emotional gift" I could give to my close friends, though it became a little predictable the third time and warranted the release of yet another sunset edition I depressed my ex-best friend with. I fiercely defend the image when my friends poke at it and say "is that a tree or a broom?" because it is not the austerity, but the obsession that they try to insult. Of late, my Dream hangs innocently from the monitor on my office-desk. I seek solace whenever the pressure takes its toll... My painting is as unexplainable and intolerable as all the others that sell for millions around the world. But, unlike the creators of those masterpieces, I cannot claim that it has anything to do with anything - not even myself. I talk - banter is the word. I find comfort in numbers. I cannot swim in a lake. I cannot climb mountains. I cannot climb trees either - and the "philosophy" behind my own painting fails to park in my mind. No meaning. No memory. No money. But a tiny creation that I can call my own - My Dream is Everything to me.