The Man

My class had been given five minutes to come down to the Thomson Hall to look at the Art Exhibition, which was in complete chaos, as usual.

Pieces of art stuck to the large cork boards like beads of sweat on the foreheads of the many labourers who had toiled stressfully to finish their work on time.

I stood before a particular station and examined an artwork with speechless admiration and a twinge of envy because my clumsy fingers could never achieve such a picture of perfection. The background of the portrait was a warm hue of golden light. An orbit of shimmering silver liquid rose to part the hazy morning air.

Beams of light streaked across the dark sky signalling the morning to all the land.

A figure stood in the centre of the picture. Charcoal black skin glistened with blood and sweat.

His body, rugged and powerful, looked as if it had been moulded from Black Onyx. Tendons of muscle and tissue wrapped around his limbs like cord around the neck and tail of an arrow.

He had broad shoulders that could carry the weight of the world if he had the desire to do so.

He was a beast, but a beautiful one. His raw power commanded attention, his naked stance, both daunting and riveting, commanded respect.

His face was hidden and therefore his identity was a mystery. Who is this man? I wondered, A god? A warrior?

His arms were stretched, reaching for the sun. His open gesture welcomed the light. I could tell by the taut muscles in his neck that he was anxious for the nigh to end.

This piece of art was an allegory. It symbolised new beginnings. It pulsated with the eagerness of a better day, a brighter tomorrow.

However, there was another aspect to this emblem. A mountain jutted out of the earth and overshadowed the man. Suddenly, his magnificence shrivelled up to nothing more than an exhausted desperation.

The light, though hindered by this great body of darkness, would continue to rise.

The man understood that the sun did not rise for him. He had no control over the giant star that brought day after day to the land.

He knew that whatever he did, whatever he said or thought, nothing would stop this process of day and night.

Not even the mountain that stood in his way could hamper this transition.

The man watched the sun rise and I noticed a pool of blood stain the earth below his feet. This, I assumed, was the blood of his victims.

His new morning, tainted by the mistakes of yesterday.

A picture really can paint a thousand words, I thought, trudging to my next class.