A RESTLESS, ignorant crowd surrounded Pablo and John as they furiously immerse in the building of their houses. The crowd. The crowd in that small village. The crowd over which so few houses can only shelter, endured living inside their boxes. Those ugly looking boxes so poorly erected, that the strongest of winds can flatten them before one could even comprehend the preceding events. But these people, as always, took pride in their resilience, and lived to face the next day inside another box they had found.
And so it comes as no surprise, that should any eccentric artisans such as Pablo and John come their way, they gather around them in curious fascination to such rarity, much like our human ancestors in their discovery of fire. Pablo and John were best friends. They were among a few esoteric "house builders", a profession so odd and yet so intriguing that one would be surprised and amused at their existence. How they came to pass in that small village where people live in boxes was unknown.
As friends, Pablo and John agreed with each other on most matters, but when it came to the subject of their craft, it was hard to find more dissimilar point of views; Pablo was an idealist, a visionary. With such passion for his art unparalleled even in this rare vocation. He would carefully drench in thought, before he could start with the painstaking process of physical building. He had the desire to be different, to be ahead of his time. He was careful, and cunning, and skillful, and most of all, silent.
John on the other hand, was what they would call a "natural". His talent, was born with him. Unlike Pablo, he need not study for hours a day, in the belief that his skills would come to him easily upon the enactment of his creative process, as it usually does. He takes pride in his showmanship. And his most beloved deed is his impressive feat for improvisation.
Pablo and John started their work. They were to build houses in that small village. The village where people live in their boxes. Each of them were assigned their spaces, on which their houses will stand. Their respective vicinities were side by side, allowing them to work closely to each other. But not a word was exchanged as both men were occupied in a silent competition. As much as they loved each other's temperament, secretly, one always tried to condescend and criticize the other.
And so the crowd. The crowd in that small village, surrounded them.
Using every grip of knowledge that he had so passionately absorbed in his studies, Pablo started by contemplating on his design in an undivided stillness. In a chair that seemed to resemble his tranquility he began sketching on his notebook. Shape after shape, scratch after scratch, it would seem as if he was battling with fate itself. Trying to come up with the perfect Form. A Form that would become the defining foundation of his house, one that neither time nor nature could shatter to the very ground he was standing on. And his mind's eyes, set alone on nothing but the outcome, the future.
While Pablo was still swimming in his notebook, John was already animating the physical work. He set up four white painted ply-woods intersected against each other that was to be the four walls of his house. He carved out a rectangular hole to one of it, and replaced it with a door made of the same wooden material. And he set up a roof above the four white walls. And the house began to take a perceivable form. And the form is that of an innocent child's drawing of his impression of a house. Everything John did, he did with panache. Then John painted the four white walls with a variety of bright colors in a repetitive pattern. And so he did with the roof. And the door. And with that, John's house, was finished.
And the crowd. The crowd in that small village, stood astonished by the outcome. Before their eyes was a stunning work of art. Before them, they beheld John's masterpiece, that which he had finished in no time, and did so with such grace and elegance. Never have they seen a house so enchanting to the eyes that everyone in the crowd suddenly wished for one. In a transpiration that took no more than it would take to write a poem, John had already won the surrounding crowd's resounding admiration.
By then, not one set of eyes lay upon Pablo, who was still cementing the foundations of the house. Not one set of eyes but John's; who, in the midst of receiving credit and congratulations from the populace, would steal glances at his best friend and accentuate it with a winning smirk. He had won the crowd and Pablo had lost in the flash of his brush strokes.
And what envy began to consume Pablo, as he filled himself with more focus he was from time to time distracted by a jealousy he so thought he never had. Like John he would steal glances back at the celebration by his side, and felt a gradually growing contempt and hatred although he wasn't sure it was on John or the crowd. But still, his focus remains unchanged. But Pablo's contempt began to reflect back at him from the crowd. The crowd. The crowd in that small village now for a while looked at him with detesting eyes, as he started piling up the brick walls one by one. He was not even close to finishing his work, but in his mind, everything was done. In his mind, it was as clear as the sight of John's prettily embellished, wooden houses. A towering structure made of brick walls and compact roof, the entire body cemented to the ground, windows on each side big enough to welcome sunlight, yet small enough to shun the interior from violent forces of nature. Everything as he had carefully planned, as he had carefully conceived.
A little more time was what he needed
Meanwhile, the crowd. The crowd in that small village, perhaps still blinded by the charm of colors that stood before them, had no interest in the labors of Pablo, and agreed instead to persuade John to build another house like the last one.
And so John, with much time on his hands, drunk with praises and acknowledgements, took up another set of flat woods, arranged them in a square as he did before, placed the roof on top of them, and painted them with a slightly different pattern of colors this time, but just as attractive as before. The crowd. The crowd in that small village could only watch him intently as a cultured audience would watch a concert pianist. And with a blink of an eye and a flamboyant stroke of his brush, it is finished.
Oh how the crowd cheered! And begged for more! And so John did.
With every house that John finished, the crowd's fondness of him (and oblivion towards Pablo) grew more each time.
When Pablo was half-way to finishing his house, John had built enough houses to shelter half of the crowd. Half of the villagers. And the village, eventually, was glittering with colors. Those houses. Those magnificent, yellow-red-blue-orange-violet-green houses. Those glamorous, ingenious, weak houses. John had single handedly provided enough of those houses for everyone. And so the crowd. The crowd in that small village, with their new folk hero, no longer had to live in their pitiful boxes. Those ugly looking brown boxes that ceased to be whenever one of those storms sweep the village. And the crowd, every one of them satisfied themselves in their pretty little houses which John built for them. And it was either Pablo or John or both who knew; that those houses are no less delicate than the boxes.
It was silent when Pablo finished building his house. There was no one left. No one there to marvel at his masterpiece but himself. Before him stood a house. A strong, sturdy, ugly looking house, with brick walls and smooth floors and a roof that which no giant could topple. He stood before his creation in the same stillness when he imagined it yet in that empty space a long, long while ago. He thought that no one in that village would admire this unattractive house anyway, not after John's decorative productions.
Pablo felt a cold gush of wind that carried with it a certainty of something.
"There's a storm coming". He said.