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All faded as the man’s voice rose again into realization,
this time bearing a forgotten lesson. Children are merely
the larval dead, Vincent, waiting to bloom into full-fledged
corpses, dried and colorless. While in that larval phase,
they are fat with the stolen nectars of lost dreams. They
conserve it, I believe, for their long crawl across the face
of a dead world, finally draining the last of that wonderful
elixir to grow transparent wings and forever worry at the
flaccid and rotted bosom of Mother Death.
It’s a rather sad and senseless journey, really, but it’s that
rote effort that supplies us, you and I, with the brittle bones
of our frailest hope. We take their burden from them, you
see, ending their painfully protracted and wholly pointless
metamorphosis. And unlike them, we employ that potential
to a purposeful end—we create wonder. Like the magician
devil standing upon the shore of the burning lake, dipping
his fiery hand into a bottomless black hat, we conjure
flowers for the damned.
This is our art, Vincent—to spite the world by painting
all the corpses the color of dreams, and defy death with the
beauty from another world. Just you and me, my boy.
Am I ever going into the gallery? my younger self asked.
I can feel myself getting older. I don’t want to go to waste.
Oh yes, certainly, the man replied. But not just yet. I
still have need of you in this world, my little wolf in sheep’s
clothing. After all, I must have supplies if I’m to conjure
miracles.
Why do the other children hate me? Is it because I tricked
them, like you taught me, to make art for the artless? I
asked, my voice as small and fragile as the memory that
contained it.
It’s because they don’t understand the importance of
what we’re doing. They are such little flies anyway, the
lowest hanging fruit, really. You shouldn’t pay them any
mind. They’ll thank you once they’ve gone into the gallery.
I promise you.
180 | Mark Anzalone