He could either be born in summer at night, or during a grey and cold winter day, I don’t quite remember…When he cried for the first time, a sweet red flower bloomed; No! ; A bomb blew! But I’m not quite sure. I think a star was born when he first opened his eyes, or the First World War broke out; the truth is, I don’t quite remember.
All I know is that he used to be wonderfully happy during childhood; he used to be handsome, clever, pulsating, lovely and gifted. His family was impressed by his artworks and they used to call him a “star”, no! “The moon”, I guess it was “the sun”. Well, no matter what it was, he went through a happy childhood and so did he during adolescence.
Actually, it was not that happy, he might have been a difficult teenager, with subversive ideas and strange ambitions; he did not want to be a teacher, nor a doctor, nor a lawyer, nor a president! He wanted to be…HIMSELF; to seek the truth, to seize the elusive, to take the thorny path, to be FREE! And he seemed to be! But inside, he was not. He was enslaved by his body, or his thoughts, or maybe his weaknesses…I don’t remember.
When he was twenty, he had become famous, well-known for his avant-gardist contribution and heterodox believes, he even was cursed! His works were damned: torn, burned or thrown in the ocean…I don’t really remember.
One day he vanished, the rumors went that he had run away from the inquisitors, but then they had caught and burned him alive. Other gossipers affirmed he became crazy or amnesiac, others asserted he died of an overdose, and some folks proclaimed he drowned in the lake there in the far-off dark wood. Even I, don’t know.
Some people say he was a poet, some say he was a painter, some a musician, some a sculptor and some say he was just… a bastard. I myself don’t know, I even don’t remember his name…
But one thing I do remember, one thing I never forget, is that he is not dead; he is still alive, I can breathe the ashes of his lost works in the air.