Decided to write a story to this awesome painting:
I am a misfit. A crazy one. I am the outcast of society, a rebel without a cause. I get that a lot. I get that more often than a genuine smile.I hear the fire-place burning and crackle through my window and think about when to extinguish it. I look down on my book again and tell myself to keep writing a bit. I am not good at writing, I will admit this. My sentences usually start with "I" and my vocabulary is not the most diverse. Still I think that I am not a bad writer. Writing is not the amount of stylistic errors one finds himself guilty to, it is more about what one has to say. I have plenty to say.I do not get to see people very often. Sometimes I take a trip to South-Oresse, a city ten kilometers away from my swamp. I go there to buy ammunition for my hunting rifle, razor blades or other stuff I need for my daily fight against the swamp. Then I get these looks. They know I am not their normal neighbor. There is a rumor going around in the city. They say I would lure children into my hut and eat them alive. That is just wrong. I always kill them before... I crossed out what I wrote here. It was supposed to be a little joke, but I do not want to stir up confusion in case anyone should find this. I never hurt anyone and never will hurt anyone.It is sad that I have the urge to defend myself. All I ever wanted to do was find an isolated place where I could smoke my pipes, make drawings and be left alone with my thoughts. I thought working hard enough for it was sufficient, but it looks like that is not enough. I did my part, but I forgot that there are other people out there.I hear the swamp. It is alive and it is breathing. The frogs are so numerous that they create an omnipresent sound. The gurgling of the dark, muddy water makes me thirsty so I finish up my glass. Gin.I hear a very loud noise from outside the cabin. It has begun. I swallow."GET THE FUCK OUT OF THERE, YOU OLD SICK BASTARD!", one screams. He said that half a minute ago, but my old hands are to slow to write it down quicker. I risk to take a quick look out of the mirror and one of them catches a glimpse at me. They now I am at home. Why should not I? I do not have much time left. I always thought doing what you love was the best. I thought everyone should fulfill his dream as long as he would not get in someones way. I never did that. I always stayed out of conflict. And now they hate me. Everyone hates me. I never fought with somebody or slept with a prostitute or stole something, like they do. I always just hunted and slept and drew and chopped wood and...They even have torches. I think this is a very organized mob because they also have a leader, who is now screaming constantly. I am almost impressed that they managed to get to my cabin, without drowning in the depths of the swamp. The leader is a young handsome man, which I have never seen before in my whole life. They want me to come down, for whatever reason. I will not come down. I will stay here in my cabin and wait for them to come. They are now screaming at me, I can hear the rage in their voices. "Bastard" "Murderer" "Dirty old man". I heart someone stomping up the stairs. In a few moments they will get me. They will drag me down the staircase of my cabin and burn my body or dump my corpse in the dark water. I honestly did not think it would end like this.I hear someone kicking against the door. It is a solid wooden door, with a heavy door bolt out of cast iron. Eventually it will break.Sometimes I get really crazy thoughts. I know that these people hate me and want nothing more than see me dead. But still I sometimes think that they admire me. They do not want to live in a swamp, but they would like to have the bravery to do so. They are caught up in society. They think they are what everybody else thinks they are. They never ask themselves who they are. I always asked myself: "Who are you?" But now there are these people, dozens of them, who want to answer that question for me."Bloody murderer!", someone shouts.I take a gulp of gin. My story ends here. I do not know which part I played in human history, if I even made a difference. Maybe there will be poems written and songs sung about me in hundred years. Maybe not. Probably not. I would not say I had a fulfilling life, but I stayed true to myself. This is not ideal, but it is not bad also, I would say.I think many of them did not stay true to themselves. This is why they hate me. I am a weird old man, that lives in the swamp - they are absolutely right about that. But at least I am something. They are just the copy of a copy of a copy. Maybe I could be wrong here, I do not know. They almost got the door, the wooden frame is already broken and I hear the heavy breathing accompanied by infuriated screaming.I hope someone will find this and read this. I will hide it somewhere in this cabin. I have to end this letter now. I can already see an eye poking through the whole in the door and the reflections of the torches in the window before me.I think they are doing me wrong. I think they are hating themselves and this is why they hate me. They admire me. They would never say it, they would not even think about it, but something in them is craving for a life like mine. I think I am not what they think I am. I think I am alright.