Breaking the Ice With Death.

The salt, crispy and frozen upon my moustache, was seemingly indistinguishable from the block of ice I lay upon. I lick my lips, puckering to the sour taste in an attempt to test my vitals. As long as I still pucker at the taste of the tangy residue on my lips, I still have hope to survive.

I was never the kind to enjoy the cold. No, I hated it. All my life, I felt a dreadful curse to it, like it was my destiny to die from the slow, voracious, and ravening kiss of the cold.

Life, on the other hand, always treated me well. Anything I did just worked out perfectly.

I wanted to become an esteemed artist, a painter, a musician of colour. A painter who could transform Bach into beautiful hues that swam on a canvas, listened to by the eyes and understood by the hearts. And so I did.

My work had become rather renowned in the galleries of Paris and the Palaces of London. They were even gifted by our emissaries to the royal families of Japan and other powerful aristocrats of the Orient. You could say I was gifted directly by God. I was illuminated by His light. In my right, I was a king, divinely ordained and successful in anything I did. My eye touched everything with light. I was a lighthouse in a world stormed by darkness.

But, the one thing I had never done to perfection was travel.

I had always been lured by it. Travel was one of those things that just didn't agree with comfort. For a long time, I had been conflicted, for how could I quench my thirst for indigenous arts while enjoying the luxuries of Chai, Carne, and Croissant?

It wasn't until my friend and art connoisseur, Wilfried Scentedham, a lad of English and French descent living in the western counties of Wales and of residence in London told us about a landmark project named the Titanic.

We sat around a beautiful garden just outside a humble gallery that had just released a new exposition of fine textiles imported from southern Spain, France, Italy, and Malta. We were discussing how rather rousing it would be to travel further to the likes of Egypt, The Seychelles and Mauritius Islands, India, and The Siamese and Nepalese Kingdoms. The pure and ancient art forms, textiles, and colours that we would discover could make any decent gentleman an immense fortune. However, I could tell that just like us men, even our lady friends felt the same heartbreak for the fact that travelling the world is indeed harsh, even for a rock. Father nature does not care who you are.

As I glide through a spell of daydreams travelling the world, I wake up to the sudden attack of a nightmare rearing on the grounds of a harsh reality. I realized that there is something powerful and invigorating about facing father nature's cruel, cold and unforgiving suppression. Something was empowering in the triumph against suppression rather than camouflaging away within the nurturing luxuries of mother nature and her little babies we call cities.

My dear friend Wilfried, a pompous, rich, and spoiled child in the body of a man, was a prime example of his mother's love. He smelt of hints of Coty, dashes of Chevalier D'Orsay, whiffs of Quelques Fleurs, and bathed in the famous French Guerlain, partly because he could afford to drink these precious, artistic perfumes but partly because his mother was a direct heir of one of France's major scent suppliers.

His father, a cousin of the Duke of Edinburgh, was a wealthy businessman who owned the largest transport company in southern England. He had fallen in love with Wilfried's mother, the daughter of an age-old client. Thus, Wilfried was a direct descendant of two powerful English and French families that had been rich for centuries.

Actually, he was the key that opened up the doors to the art world for me.

His parents were art connoisseurs and science extraordinaires. In fact, his father, obsessed with the life sciences, was a major funder of scientific expeditions. It was his dream and the dream of his forefathers to finally become knighted as a sir by the king. All his life, he was quite fond of King George V and took notice to maintain the same cold and calculated demeanour; or at least that was his impression of the king from gazing at all his portraits. But, in reality, he never had the fortune to meet him.

Wilfried would tell me that in a drunken fury on some nights, he would lash out in sadness and a fit of rage at the age-old enmity of the English and the French. He knew, because of that, that he could never truly move up the social ladder.

Wilfried's father was also obsessed with naval technologies because it could further the power of his business and empower scientists to make safe and successful voyages to and from the Arctic and Antarctic poles of the world. They believed that another new world of riches lay beyond the ice and that this could finally be the key to being knighted by the king. Just like a few decades ago, when Sir James Ross captained the HMS Erebus and HMS Terror and embarked on the historic voyage to the south pole searching for science, riches, and acclaim. In fact, exactly 100 years ago today, in 1812, that same HMS Terror embarked on its first journey across the Atlantic. Those voyages, battles, ships, and discoveries honoured their captain with the elusive title he wanted so badly.

These two ships were exceptional because they were built using powerful new technologies. Originally built as heavy mortar warships, they were designed with incredibly strong hulls to withstand the high magnitude of force exhaled by each round fired. Their hulls were able to withstand even the harshest of climates. They discovered these hulls were better at resisting the crushing forces of ice, which allowed them to navigate and dominate the northern seas for longer periods before the winter season.

Eventually, they began engineering ships powered by steam engines rather than sails. As you can imagine, a heavy ship pushed by wooden sails could not move so well, but a heavy ship with steam engines could possibly soar across the oceans. This hybrid technology allowed British scientists to continue pushing deeper into the darkness of the icy seas.

Ever since Wilfried mentioned the Titanic that beautiful afternoon, I had become obsessed with the idea of metal floating on water.

I pondered the great power created by contrasts.

Electricity runs from negative to positive, life flows from father to mother, and heat creeps from hot to cold. A question and answer create learning, and science and fiction create art.

A few weeks later, my friend Wilfried came knocking at my door, surging with joy and excitement. He and his father had been invited for a special tour of the Titanic.

As members of the upper class, they had direct connections to all the major ports of the United Kingdom. He was thrilled to have seen firsthand what the iron-clad ship looked like on the inside and out. He told me of the unimaginable riches and luxuries within its dormitories.

The Titanic was not only unsinkable but of unthinkable luxuries.

Especially while travelling. Indeed it was the ship to be on, especially, for any up and coming artist, like me, looking to embark on a journey of civilized inspiration from the comfort of your home.

To be honest, I couldn't be bothered by the distractions of father nature as I painted the beauty of mother nature.

Indeed, I only needed her love's purest and most enriching essence to create the most masterful portraits on canvas. I wanted people to see my paintings and smell the wondrous scents of Guerlain.

I wanted an observer's mind to smell my purples like violets; my reds like roses, my blues like freshwater, my greens like cut grass, my yellows like honey, and my oranges like oranges. I wanted my reds to sound like the beating of war drums, my blues like the deep notes of a trombone, my browns like the ticking of sticks, and my purples like the cries of a violin.

I wanted my painting to orchestrate a symphony of thoughts.

I wanted to wave my brush like a wand, handmade by the magic of the ancient druids carved from the holly tree herself. I wanted to wave my holly wand and watch my imagination come to life.

And indeed, a painter of dreams I was.

In my own right, and that of every person, in my own eyes, drowned in arrogance and lured by a mirage of power, I convinced myself that I must take that voyage on the Titanic. That this voyage was my spiritual baptism held by the hands of mother nature and drowned by father himself, bound by a shiny metal hull of a new saviour we all secretly worshipped: science.

It was my calling.

For the emerald tablets, themselves prescribed the power of polarity. I knew I had to travel through harshness and luxury to bring eternal light to eternal darkness. For me, I was the new Christopher Columbus of unseen art. I knew that my voyage was about to paint a new map of understanding, a new light to shine on the edges of a canvas we all believe is flat.

So in that moment of reverie, as I came back to reality, I began to re-see my dear friend Wilfried in front of me.

I told him: "I must be on that ship."

I looked Wilfried in his eyes, and even though I could only see one, it was as if there were two.

"Why? Why would you want to go?" he asked, "You don't even want to go to America."

"I need to be aboard that ship; there is something for me on the other side."

"Well, umm, I don't know, all the luxury cabins have been booked, and my father and I are set to stay right next to the German envoys. I don't think you will be able to get a spot. They are all booked." He said with a fearful spoiled brat undertone.

I knew exactly what he was doing. He thought me for an idiot. He wanted to make it seem more exclusive than it really was. Then he could hike up the price and get me to buy it from him. If he learnt anything about the real world, it was just greed, and he was big, fat, and full of it.

"Will Clare be joining you?" I asked.

"No, my father does not want me with her anymore. We need to be careful of whom we meddle with as there will be important people on this ship, and we don't want to associate with the wrong crowd." Said Wilfried, matter of factly.

"Indeed so," I said reaching down for a cigarette.

I thought to myself, it's time for me to use the other side of my heritage. As a descendant of tough guys, it always came naturally to me. In the blink of an eye, my pupils could go from a peaceful little dot, like the one on top of the letter i, to a sharp capitalized strike like in the eyes of a feline. I saw myself as a man with the roar of a lion, the poisonous fangs of a snake, the body of a tiger and the observant eyes of a cat. I was the wolf, and all these people were sheep.

"So, you're done with Clare? Makes sense. I saw her leaving the naval dormitories…." I lied. "Her hair looked a bit messy, but she wasn't too bothered, almost like she was smiling a bit," I said, trying to hide my smile and the canines within.

"What?" said Wilfried.

I could see the blood rushing out of his cowardly face, his eyes shaking like water in an earthquake.

"When did you see her? How could she do that to me? I only ever showed her love, care and affection. I even introduced her to my family!" He said beginning to well up.

I was happy. His tears were tears of joy in my eyes.

"Well, you're done with her, no? You already booked your voyage and won't be seeing her anytime soon, so just let go of it, you're about to meet a ton of highly successful and influential people anyways, so I am sure you'll be able to find someone better." I said.

In reality, I knew that this puny little momma's boy would never make anyone fall in love with him. If anything, he would be eaten alive by a mermaid that would then seduce every officer in his dad's company!

"That's true." He said, thinking for a second, "well, maybe that's true. But, you know, girls don't bother to talk to me until they notice my watch or smell my cologne."

"Exactly, your clock is ticking and you smell like fresh meat to all the lions, tigers, hyenas and mermaids," I thought to myself.

"So, who sells tickets for the Titanic?" I asked.

"Well, we got ours because my father invested in building the ship, so we had priority when choosing our cabins, but I think you can book one of the standard rooms at the port of Belfast or the offices in Liverpool. I can also get you a ticket if you don't want to go all the way there. But you will have to pay, and they are expensive," he said. "Maybe we can work something out, maybe some of your paintings instead of cash?"

I laughed inside, "this idiot is like a goose trying to fight a hungry fox, fleeting and at the mercy of nature," I thought to myself. But, of course, if you had ever met a gaggle of geese, you would know what I mean.

"Great, I will go buy one in Liverpool as soon as I can," I said.

"Well, I could check with my dad and see if we have any transports going there. Maybe I could get you a spot on one of them?" He said.

"No, I have been there before. I sold one of my paintings to a hotel there. I know exactly how to get there and where to stay, but thanks anyway." I stated.

"Okay then," he paused, "I guess I will see you on deck?"

"Not sure; I will be busy journaling my thoughts as I prepare to commission my next painting," I replied as I began preparing to head out, "If not on the ship, I will see you when we land."

"Ah yes, I have heard so many wonderful things about America, the land of the free, the opportunities, the business, the money, so many wonderful things. I am sure we would be able to make a fortune there with your art." He said, smiling, looking at me with a pathetic and clingy expression in his eyes.

But I knew that behind those clingy, pathetic, and cowardly eyes were nothing but a hypocrite. Weak and bound to die, a species that will not survive Darwinian evolution. Mother nature killed him with her own love, and still, even so, father nature did not care even one bit.

"There is no we in my art. It is I and only I. So if you want to buy the next piece, make sure your fancy friends do not hear about it first because I am sure they will pay a lot more than you can!" I grabbed my jacket and stormed out of the room.

One Month Later

I arrived in Liverpool a few days ago, after staying a few nights in Birmingham.

I've always liked Birmingham. The art galleries are nice, the people are friendly, and the weather is rather mild all throughout the year, and it's never too hot nor too cold. I guess that's because it's further inland than London or Liverpool, which are both cold, cloudy, rainy, and overcast. So everything there makes you just want to colour the grey away with swiss chocolates.

I spoke with the owner of the hotel, a huge fan of mine, who had a special deal with the Titanic because he had supplied them with long term housing for the engineering teams as they prepared the ship for its maiden voyage. He was able to secure me a room just between the luxury suites and the crew's suites where I would be able to paint as well; again, as it goes, life has some way of just doing what I need even in the face of father nature's cold repression.

I paid about 120 pounds for my ticket, even though, now, the lower class tickets were selling for only 8. There was a strike at the ports, so plenty of people cancelled their bookings, including many from the first class which just a month ago were going for almost 900 pounds each! I got a fair price for mine, as it was precisely what the lower class tickets cost just a month ago. I'd like to think that my room is better than first class, as I get to enjoy the company of the captain's crew and maybe some time with the captain too.

We had embarked on our fateful voyage on the morning of April the 10th, 1912.

I kept an eye out for Wilfried and his father. After that incident a few months ago, I would never go up to them to say hi, but I wanted to watch them and entertain myself. I could see right through their cracks. They had nothing on the inside.

I went down to the buffet for lunch.

I hate crowds of people that are not talking about my art. I also hate crowds of people wasting my time talking about useless, low-minded things; with their un-intellectual jokes, their ego patting complements and fake smiles, I did not have time to waste my spiritual awakening on their whimsical insecurities and social constructs. I was on the verge of revolutionizing realistic abstractionism and the very way we see it.

My table was beautiful, hand made, carved, with ivory trimmings, marble, dark red paint on the base and perfectly white satin serviettes. The glasses were spotless, and the walls were just as clean. There was this heavenly shine to everything.

But, the curtains and cushions had an uncanny disposition to them. There was this eerie dark shade of wetness that I could not understand. One moment I would feel like I was under the rays of heavenly light, and the next, I would feel like I was lying in my own coffin.

I got up without finishing my meal and briskly walked back to my room. I was having a commanding moment of enlightenment, a powerful one.

I knew I needed to paint what I had seen.

I imagined myself inside a luxurious coffin, made of wood, with white cushioning and encased metal, floating on water. My hands, laid upon my torso, were shackled by iron cuffs. My feet tied down to a metal anchor. My face was but a featureless spring of light like a star. This star was enlightened by a glow from heaven. As you examine it closer, you begin to see a faded, off-white portrait of a person in the form of a spirit or soul sitting down in a pondering pose, regretfully asking why. There was no lion here, no signs of a predator, all of that had completely gone.

Only purity and light.

Tones of light that created undertones of shape. Inspiration only in the mind of the beholder.

The ocean surrounding the coffin was calm. The clear midnight sky filled with twinkling stars glittering upon the ocean's surface. Discerning reflection from inflection was near impossible. There was no moon, just cold majestic beauty. Mother nature was nowhere in sight; it was only cold and undeniably wet.

I shivered with excitement.

I began to wave my wand at the canvas, casting spells of colour and symbolism. My passion flowed right into the ocean of the canvas, just like my tears flowed into my lips as I felt every atom of my body resonate with the universe. As the ship swayed ever so slightly, my feet felt as though I was flying like an angel, painting strokes of light with my wings etching perfect inflections into the universe with every stroke. There was no Michelangelo, there was no Da Vinci, there was no Van Gogh, and there was no Rembrandt. There was no Bach, there was no Mozart, there was no Beethoven, and there was no Vivaldi. There was only me.

Gracefully, I came down to earth.

It is being immersed in abstraction that makes me feel suspended in reality. This sensitivity to understanding, this powerful feeling of perfection in expression, and this clarity of truth drive me to paint with passion. It is my vice. It is my medicine too.

But I need more. MORE!

Imagine what I can do with MORE!

Smashing a cup of tea on the wall in a fit of my roaring, passionate rage, the lion and the fire within me erupt as I feel my legs electrified with strength and my power boiling high with energy. Nobody can take it away from me, nobody.

Suddenly a sharp stomp shook this stout ship to a sobering standstill.

I knew deep down we stopped moving.

What just happened, I wondered? "Did God stomp the ship in its tracks?" I asked myself as my eyes melted down my face.

My legs froze as I began to feel extremely heavy.

A quick cold breeze of air quickly rushed through the room like a curse. I knew exactly what was happening.

I began to hear the wails and screams. Hopeless cries, muffled by the shouting and fighting of intoxicated men, and worst of all, the deadly silence of doomed children.

I could hear the bending metal of the ship and the beating of my heart pounding through the air. I shivered as I felt the howls and bellows of ghosts of sailors passed.

My mind began to zone out. The sounds of my surroundings diminished as I heard my own clock ticking.

I ran towards the door, but my legs wobbling like spaghetti, gave in under the weight of horror and fear. I tried to step forward but could not land my foot on the ground. My body dove headfirst towards the wooden floor.

Suddenly everything shifted with great momentum hurling me across the room.

As I soared across the room, my face struck my painting, adding father nature's own personal touch to my art. At that moment, I felt like a brush in the air, furiously thrown towards a large canvas, my hair splattering paint all over the place like the bristles of a brush.

After waking up, I realized I had been knocked out, but everything was still lopsided.

I accepted my fate. I had a good life. I always got what I wanted. I guess I had wished for this without realizing it. I just wanted to meet my father.

I missed him. Mother took all my attention. She showered me with love, kindness, luxury and the illusion of eternity. She fed me with food which grew my arrogance. Deep down, I knew I needed to break my ego, so I longed for my father's nature. My soul longed to be humbled. It longed to be reborn.

I got up on two feet and carefully swung myself towards the door. My face, covered in white and blue paint, was bruised badly, but you could not tell the paint from the bruise apart.

I ran out to the dark hallway.

I could see a beam of light, my chance at survival.

I tried to run and tripped, crawled and jumped, blinded by paint and sweat, but never cried. I knew that I had a chance of getting outside of this casket of death.

Then, violently, the ship tilted even more.

The floor under me turned into a hill. I quickly grabbed hold of the nearest door handle, catching myself before rolling to a tragic end. I looked back and could see the teeth of the ocean eating at everything like a hungry animal. The white waves of water swiftly engulfed everything into the depths of its despair.

I climbed and climbed and climbed.

Some debris went flying into the pit of the hall, like meat dropping into a meat grinder. I quickly noticed a huge fire extinguisher flying toward me. I tried to dodge it but could not, and it smashed into my shoulder, rendering my arm lifeless and numb.

I was sure the ocean was going to devour me alive.

With all the force I could muster, I jumped towards the next door and grabbed the handle. Unexpectedly, it flung open and thrust me into a room. There was a window in this one. I ran and threw myself through the window as hard as I could.

But to no avail. It did not break.

I quickly looked around for something to break it with.

There was a stone statue of some famous guy. I picked it up with my good hand. It was very heavy, but I swung it with all my might toward the window. The glass cracked, but suddenly upon impact, the entire ship sank a lot more.

I was afraid to throw it again. In my mind, something told me when I did, the entire ship would swiftly sink underwater. But I knew I had to, so I picked it up and threw it again.

The window cracked even more.

Slowly, the ship bobbed to an angle.

I reached for the statue as it began to roll away but couldn't catch it. I watched as it tumbled out the door and into the hall. I could hear it smashing down the walls howling through the air with horrifying death screams. I thought it hit someone, or that's what my mind thought.

Without thinking, my body just began running towards the window as I dived headfirst through the shattering glass and into the open air.

My wings were nowhere to be seen, nor those of my guardian angel.

I spiralled towards the ocean and landed right on my bad shoulder. The entire joint ripped right off. My arm dangling by the skin, still attached to my body but completely useless. It felt like I was lying upon the most severe of fires, but with the ice cold water, they somehow evened out.

I began kicking and swinging for my life. Only one arm actually moved.

I was being pulled apart by the hold of mother nature and the grip of father nature. Life and death were playing a tug of war, and I was the rope.

I realized that swimming would not work and that I needed to try and float on my back.

As I lay on my back, I looked up to see what was happening with the Titanic.

In front of me, the ship was still there, cracked in two halves. Each broken end raised out of the water together, forming a gate. Like a gate to hell, the ends pointing out into the sky, I could see people jumping for their lives, only to land to their deaths.

There I could see Wilfried.

I watched him as he cowered in his room, which had been torn in half. Wearing a ridiculous life jacket, which at that point had nothing to do with life anymore. He was crying, sobbing and reaching out to someone on the other side.

I turned across and could see his father.

There he was, standing at the edge of the other broken end. His arms in the air, staring at his son. I knew he had no idea what to do. He would have jumped but did not. He feared never seeing his boy again. Instead, frozen, he gazed at his son with love and horror, attempting to enjoy every last moment he had to look at him. He seemed torn apart by the complete uselessness he saw embodied within his son.

They were both helpless.

I felt like he also realized that all the money, education and luxury that was supposed to nurture and nourish his son was exactly what would kill him and their legacy.

Forever.

In a leap of faith, his father leaps to the other side.

Wilfried quickly crawls over the edge to see what happened to his father but, in his clumsy haste, throws himself over only to somersault to his final demise.

The legacy of the Scentedhams had come to an end.

Indeed it was an emotional moment, one that even a painting could not give due respect.

I look up to the stars and wonder, what will happen to me now?

Something hard thumps me on the head.

I quickly turn around to look and see a floating block of ice.

I pull myself onto it and lay down. I slowly sat up, struggling to keep my fingers from sticking to the ice. I look towards the Titanic and watch it engulfed by the roaring waves of the ocean, sinking to the bottom of the earth.

I lick my lips as I taste reality.

The ice between mother nature and father nature finally broken forever.