Mind over matter

?Beauty is not skin deep?, said Morgan as he moved his small Mongol eyes hidden under those black framed glasses along the weird looking paintings. He possessed an air of impression of not realizing my unhealthy effort of lending my ears to him. In the other dimension of the hall, Steve Clapton, the artist, was seated in a huge couch towards the corner of the hall as if he were a newly crowned emperor. His pieces of art were boasting of immense marvel as always. And there I was stirring about the exhibition hall like any other commonplace visitor.

I was always fascinated by objects of art whether it was the crayon work of a primary grader or painter?s delightful palette. Now before me stood one of those expressive works of Mr. Clapton, of course, of the latter type. The canvass possessed the image of a person who looked like a writer with his evidently cheap table covered with an apparent mess of papers. One could easily gather the fact that a violent rush of wind was forcing a similar spread of paper. The entire set-up was looking like medieval novelist?s much adored evening writing site.

The first impression that came to my mind was the queer selection of the painter. Why on earth could a painter select a ?novelist at work? scenario? Maybe this selection was not queer enough .However for me, a clergyman who lacked a precise sense of artistic analysis, things seemed uncomfortably complex. I was better off appreciating rather than analyzing. I left this mind boggling matter behind because another imagination was forcing its way through my brain. I felt a strong desire to picture the art in a very personal fashion. No luck; how could I ever imagine myself to be a writer? Then I could try it on Morgan. He, as far as I know, was a popular writer among adults. I deeply tried to diverge my mind towards that imagination I longed for.

Morgan was comfortably hidden under his oversized jacket, inside my imaginations. His black eyes faced the open window reflecting some of the things being cooked in his grey matter. As his pen sailed with a handsome speed his shiny face bore a sarcastic smile. Suddenly a strong wind headed its way into the room and did enough to throw sheets all over. Once again he smiled but with a medley of annoyance and surprise this time. Maybe he should have closed the window panes, he thought.

Now I feared if I would lose my creative levels making my thought a void manifestation. The fact that my hidden expressions were not realized by many was an even worse case. Everyone has creative instincts, I found. It was the application of ?mind over matter? that actually counted. How I wished I could be the man in the picture. I craved for speaking literature more than anyone I knew wanted to.

?Mr. Kelvin?, Morgan called me. Almost all the pairs of eyes in the hall were upon me. I was shocked, more embarrassed, not knowing what had just happened. My lone presence beside the paintings looked very strange. That strangeness was unfortunately highlighted due to the bulk of the visitors gathered in the special corner of the hall. My experience had come to an abrupt end. I had learnt something unexplainable, not even Morgan could express them. Thankfully, I could.

?What about the skin-deep thing Mr. Kelvin?? Morgan asked once again. ?Your words hold truth Morgan, only truth? I replied in the finest manner I could. Just then the group Mr. Clapton had gathered burst into a huge laughter which even more reddened me.  He stood out and called both of us, me and Morgan, ?You have had enough brainwork my good old friends. What about a cup of coffee now??