Two less angry persons in the room decide to set aside their arguments for the sake of the group dynamics. One sets aside his emotions and stands quite far away from the other as possible. There was a cacophony of silent awkwardness in the air as the two continued to exhibit their infallible tantrums. The group moves on with their work and decides to come up with ideas to unite each other and compromise. Neither of the two spoke to each other all the way through the discussion. They formulated individual proposals that vary in topics but never discussed anything that involved one another, and so none of them actually came with a conclusion considering there were too many proposals thrown into the space. They decided to leave it be for that day and come back the day after to think things through. Everyone agrees and went on their separate ways.
The next day, one of the two persons arguing yesterday did not show up. Neither did she leave any sort of indication of not coming. Everyone reckoned to just move on and continue with the work with or without her.
Work came smooth as the week passes by, but none of it really came to a resolute decision. There were many uneasy challenges along the way but nobody complained nor fought despite the minor disagreements. Despite the woman whom he argued with still was nowhere in sight, he stood his ground and kept his cool, shrugging off constant and persistent questions by his peers about the woman's condition and his involvement with her disappearance. It annoyed him to no end. He was left with little choice until he was driven to worry and his conscience getting the best of him in the long run.
The performance night came and everybody performed well enough for the audience to applaud. As it ended, with arms high above his head and his chest outwards to the stage, he gives out an infectious, confident grin of satisfaction that showed the sincerity of his play, and everyone that performed along with him soon followed, and everyone bowed down with joyous victory, prepped for another night of salutations and merriment. But he could not destroy the image of the woman that disappeared. And his grin faded quickly as he turned his back from the audience and into the backstage. He would not imbibe and celebrate that night with the others.
Four months in, first day of the second year of his life. He meets his peers once again and embraced them tighter than a sack of rice. The kisses went on for awhile before it was time for the actual learning. On the stage where he left and performed was a pen that he used a few months ago to write all the necessary actions for the proposals they introduced. He used it often, but it wasn't actually his. It was again the woman's.
He turned to find an old acquaintance that knew that woman well and asked about her. He found out that she became a well-renowned auteur in her country. In that short span of time, she has made three short documentaries by her own and in her own budget. Her opinions resonated well upon those that listened to her openly. Her adroit meticulousness that even he was aware of proved quite useful in her success. He was, of course, immediately baffled. The acquaintance showed him a website in his laptop about her recent activities, but neither of which really stood out to actually make him care. His was a hard-boiled mind, and opinions like his' came like voices from prophets singing verses of raptures and armageddon. He could not foresee and find rationale in what was happening. The sudden news of her success struck him as insulting, and in many ways, for him, such a waste of (no) talent and time. His thoughts of worriment soon became thoughts of mischief. He developed a sense of schadenfreude.
Throughout his lifetime, he would never find solace in his actions without having to contrast it to previous failures. He always finds reason to deny and disapprove. His life of art bears the stigma of misanthropy and died a miserable death to lung cancer with immeasurable years of continued smoking, not to mention the chronic alcoholism as well.
His art would never resonate with the people he showed it to, and he died without a memory of his name.