Graffiti King

James was just a normal person, every day was the same, he caught the same train and went to university the same. Until one specific day, the same was different, that day he became someone else, someone he had abandoned years ago, he became himself.

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2. The First

   Act 1 - Revolution

"'That's cool' his brother said, 'what does it mean?' Frowning James asked, 'mean..?' 'Yeah, when you draw something it always needs a meaning, something that it defines, a purpose of sorts, what are you trying to do with this art?' His eyes widened, and he looked at the art, 'A purpose?' James said, smiling."

 

Chapter 2 ~ The First

   He found himself wandering the city in his spare time, while everyone was focused on themselves and their technology, as he used to be, he was focused outward, not inward. James saw what he once was, a slave to the times, staring into a screen, drawing out the information, completely connected, and disconnected at the same time.

   "Purpose?" he remembered, "An artwork always needs a purpose." Maybe something that'll wake the city from its dying slumber, break the daily routine, free the people from their chains of repetition. None of these people had imagination, all they yearned was a break from their work, and money, and connection.

   They didn't know real art. Or if they had, they had long forgotten how it felt.

   Without realising it, James had wandered into that place, he stared at it. Looking at the charred remains of a orphanage. Hundreds of children used to live here, their parents long gone. Now the only place that they belonged to was taken from them again.

   It was a victim of an arson, but who is sick enough to burn an orphanage you ask? Well get this, it was an 'accident'

   It was only about a few months ago, and the city was still reeling from its effect, it had deeply scarred the place, and everyone around it. But like all things people got back into their lives, forgetting, the children however were on the streets. And some still stayed in the ruin of a building that was once their home.

   The arsonist was trying to get into the bank safe across the street, and he had done it, but little did he expect what fire did best. Spread. The flames and embers had flown across in the night wind, and hit the orphanage. The rest was history, the place burned.

   Glancing at the building he realised the state of the building wasn't really that bad. It just appeared to be. The surface was covered in black, and the insides of the buildings were burnt to a crisp too, but from what he could see. The foundations were still solid, and the walls were still standing.

   No one had bothered to repair the place, the orphanage had no funds, everyone saw what it was on the outside, blackened and ruined, beyond repair.

   He stared at it, an idea forming, the blackened walls inside and out, giving thought to a new creation. It was just like a forest, when it burns down, the seeds remain, and the forest regrows. And his idea was its first sapling.

   He sat, smiling and began to plan.

   He returned the next day and began to work, during the daylight he worked on the inside, and during the night he worked on the outside. A few orphans saw him, but they never understood what he was doing.

   For art in the making is only art to the maker himself, to anyone else art is only art when its finished. He smiled, they saw a madman, but madness can birth genius. 

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