“ The attention he gave to his work was mesmerising. It was as if nothing else in the world existed.”
An old man with a paint can in one hand, and a feather-like tiny paintbrush in the other, stepped through the front door of a crumbling little home nestled amongst the meadows. Green pastures stretched off into the horizon, and the chirping of birds, the only sound that broke the whispering of the wind.
The timber-framed home had an orange glow from the sunrise taking place behind it. A photographer’s dream.
Closing his eyes momentarily, the old man took a deep breath as if preparing himself, and then dipped the brush into the paint can and started painting the topmost shutter of one of the windows in the home.
The brush he was using was so small that each stroke would only cover a pencil-tip area of the shutter. But on he went, one stroke to the left and another to the right. Like a pendulum swinging in perfect harmony. Hours would pass before all shutters on a single window would be complete.
There were many shutters on each window, and many windows in the home. Row by row, shutter by shutter, stroke by stroke. He continued day after day.
The old man arrived at the same time each morning, and painting from sunrise through to many hours after sunset he continued. There was a peaceful elegance to him. Never a sense of rush, or frustration, calm as the environment surrounding him. The attention he gave to his work was mesmerising. It was as if nothing else in the world existed. One by one, he painted all the shutters of the home.
And as soon as he finished the shutters, using the same minuscule paintbrush, he then began painting all the walls in the home.
Weeks had passed before his work was finally complete.
The peeling and crumbly interior of the home now looked immaculate. The old man wiped the trickle of paint from his brow, and again took a deep breath before taking a seat on the floor and resting his weight on his elbows. With a big smile on his face, he sat with chest out, and admired his work.
The next morning he again arrived at the home, this time without the paint can or the brush. However he was greeted by a large demolition machine standing at the front of the home. This machine looked hunched, like a beast readying itself to pounce. It was an odd sight. It even seemed wrong. This man made behemoth amongst the serenity of nature on where it stood. Leaving its imprint every centimetre it moved.
And within minutes, this machine crushed the entire home to the ground.
Rubble lay across the land where the home used to be. The old man watched on. His facial expression showed little change from the moment the day before when he was sitting on the floor in a dreamy state appreciating his work, to today watching it all crumble in front of him. It seemed to make little difference to him. He stood gracefully, even admiring, the entire process as it took place.
One of the shutters he had painted fluttered down with the wind and landed at this feet. With a hint of a smile, he picked it up, and admired the beauty of his work. He then dropped it where it lay, opened the umbrella he was holding in his hand, and walked away.
The birds chirped as they followed him off into the distance.
In the end, nothing is all we have.
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