You Could Shine So Bright
art is the weapon against life as a symptom
Patrick sees graffiti everywhere now.
It took him a while to notice at first; City C’s been covered in spray-paint secrets for as long as he’s been living in it and it’s just become part of the scenery. Somehow, though, somewhere along the line, the tags morphed into something... else, something dangerous, something more than just words and numbers and the odd picture here and there.
He’s trudging down Street F when it first happens, when he sees the piece that will change everything forever. He turns the corner, whistling a line of a nameless song, and stops still. There’s writing on the wall opposite where he’s standing, and it says:
you can only blame your problems
on the world for so long before it
all becomes the same old song.
The red paint looks fresh, but it’s drying quickly in the arid summer breeze. The letters are evenly-spaced and perfectly-formed, crafted by the loving hand of a veteran. The can’s still rolling away down the street, metal clinking against the pavement.
Patrick frowns. No one comes down this way. No one but him. There isn’t anything for anyone on Street F, just battered old buildings which should have been torn down years ago.
Patrick shakes his head, hard, then turns around and goes back the way he came.
***
The graffiti’s gone the next day. The wall is scrubbed so clean it’s shining in the middle of the grubby, grimy street.
(Patrick knows it won’t be, tomorrow. Nothing ever shines for long in Country A.)
It took him a while to notice at first; City C’s been covered in spray-paint secrets for as long as he’s been living in it and it’s just become part of the scenery. Somehow, though, somewhere along the line, the tags morphed into something... else, something dangerous, something more than just words and numbers and the odd picture here and there.
He’s trudging down Street F when it first happens, when he sees the piece that will change everything forever. He turns the corner, whistling a line of a nameless song, and stops still. There’s writing on the wall opposite where he’s standing, and it says:
you can only blame your problems
on the world for so long before it
all becomes the same old song.
The red paint looks fresh, but it’s drying quickly in the arid summer breeze. The letters are evenly-spaced and perfectly-formed, crafted by the loving hand of a veteran. The can’s still rolling away down the street, metal clinking against the pavement.
Patrick frowns. No one comes down this way. No one but him. There isn’t anything for anyone on Street F, just battered old buildings which should have been torn down years ago.
Patrick shakes his head, hard, then turns around and goes back the way he came.
***
The graffiti’s gone the next day. The wall is scrubbed so clean it’s shining in the middle of the grubby, grimy street.
(Patrick knows it won’t be, tomorrow. Nothing ever shines for long in Country A.)