The Invisible Ink

I am immortal. What am I? A faerie? A vampire? A Fate?

Just an aspiring artist. Artists, one of the emerging immortal kinds who mortals claim have clocks with chimes so many that not a single of them matters. Every strike in the clock of this kind’s life is as insignificant as their work. Mortals, who have limited, incredibly important hours in a day steal more of it from the immortals, every single day. If theft of time were a legal crime, time police would rather still cuff us, the immortals, for denying those needy their extra hours, deeming it as a theft of theirs. Uh well, that’s just how the system works.

I really must be immortal, for how else do I not bleed to death when they hurl rocks of envy at me, every day? How else do my lungs not give up when they strangle me with insults, every day? How else do I still create, when they amputate my steps with fear, every day?

And why, you might ask. Because I dared to choose an untrodden path, and they feared the unknown. Because a mere three letter word ‘art’ was offensive to the entire existence. Because they were afraid, I might stumble upon a magic they lost the rights to possess.

Or I might be entirely mistaken and they actually care too much about me, so decided to help sculpt my life with stones and knives, sacrificing precious chimes from their mortal clocks, just to help me fit in. So thoughtful, my eyes tear up. I am debating if I should kiss them in thanks or a hug would do? Maybe a loving vampire bite? I’d love to show gratitude soul to soul but they were kissed by a dementor, the system. Dementors work different in the muggle world, I recently discovered. Their kiss doesn’t just suck out one’s soul, it turns into one of their kind, and they keep breeding like frogs.

Apparently, it also takes away one’s ability to read. Pity, all that money spent and their comprehension skills become as fragile as their egos.

‘Just because my dreams are different than yours doesn’t mean they are unimportant.’

That’s alright, maybe this line is cursed. Maybe mortals see it as a lot of gibberish. They don’t understand a lot of things. Maybe it’s a charm the immortals placed on their work. The work unlocks itself only for those who value it. What’s the point communicating with those who don’t understand any tongue? People who speak the language of hurt. Common phrases include-

“What an immature being!”

“Arts? Definitely a dumbass”

“Find a real job!”

“What a waste, nobody cares about your work!”

“Your time DOES NOT MATTER.”

“Stop talking to kids, you’ll ruin their lives just like you did with yours.”

“Do whatever, but keep it private for it’s a bad influence.”

“Don’t bother dreaming, you’ll end up in a 9-5 anyway, that’s the only path there is.”

If I didn’t have an ikigai to chase, just like them, I’d try to correct them. But because I have a world to build from scratch, I just agree with them when they say a rose is a fish.

World building. Lucky it’s my job to create my world from zero, and not to help edit this one for then the book would forever be stuck in an editing phase. This world baffles me. Mortals build rockets to explore mars, yet fail to find a ride to their within. They collectively believe that crammed cubicles are larger than a tiny spark of imagination. I must apologize; they do imagine great things after all. That choosing spreadsheets over stories would always get them crowns of glory. That fresh bills is the power they possess which allows a rule over immortals.

Fresh bills. Yes, immortals struggle with that. Art and notes of green and orange don’t exactly get along in the mortal world. Building a world within the mortals and hoping it would put food on the table is like praying to Zihnal, the God of luck. Artists after all, although deemed immortal certainly aren’t magical creatures that brew potions to build castles overnight, for shelter and conjure food from thin air. That’s a basic law even in the magical world. One can’t just conjure these out of nothing, we need coins. Then why do we choose to turn into this kind? Although it promises neither cash, nor success? It promises a path within. A purpose.

Like civil wars in any kind, the Arts isn’t all pretty pink flowers. Those who live in the realm between Arts and Other worlds, part time into Art and jumping back to the Other shame those who live in Art full time. If I didn’t know better, that’s called a betrayal trope, which as a writer I would make sure to do justice to. There’s also lots of ill between various clans, say writers, dancers, singers, painters and a hundred others; creating a battlefield for bringing each other down.

Well, every world has its problems to fix. Let’s hope time fixes it, because of course we have lots of it, yeah? Takes decades before one gets to claim citizenship of this world. For years, we exist in a realm of in-between, neither of the worlds fully accepting us. But again, it doesn’t really matter, right? Because no matter how horrid, golden chains of intelligence would always dominate the magic of art.

I fall to my knees with every step, irises red; wishing to channel from the ground, turn to the dark side and drain everything that hurts. But I see Art, standing by me like a dragon, ready to catch from the most brutal falls.

Every night, tears soak my pillow before I drift off to my HOME- Fantasy. Every day, like General Varrish(Come on, read Iron Flame already!) they break me, hoping I’ll crack. And in the silent hours of dawn, I do. Until Art decides to pay me a visit and encapsulate all the hate into itself. Rather charming process, just like this one.