Burning Art

By Joanne Koshy

The God had no name, for they were known by many—some called them the Muse, others the Artisan, and some simply whispered prayers to the wind, hoping for inspiration. They had shaped the songs of mortals, guided the hands of painters, and whispered stories into the ears of poets. 

But it was never enough.

Every moment, someone pleaded for a spark of creativity. Every second, a new masterpiece was demanded. The weight of expectation pressed upon the god like an iron yoke. Inspiration was infinite all say, but they were not. The demands grew greater for each word spoken as true passion dwindled. 

And so, one night, they fled. 

They abandoned their celestial halls, casting aside their divine duties, and wandered into the world of mortals, hoping to disappear among them. Hoping for peace, for silence, for death and they didn’t know if this was a futile effort. But they never felt so free when they disrobed the heavy title and stepped out to the open air.

The god wandered far, their feet tracing paths that had been walked by countless artists before them. The pain never felt so invigorating each step they took. Of course, it has been years since they had walked this much, so assistance was required. A simple branch that twisted and curled towards the top. Elegant and simple in a surprising way.  They passed through towns where poets wept over blank pages, through cities where sculptors hammered away at stone, through theaters where dancers trained on beat, all waiting for perfection. Every place they went, the weight of what was left behind. The endless expectation. The desperate pleas. The fear of failure. Where could they go for a silent passing? 

One evening, as gold bled across the sky, they came across a village where a girl sang beneath an old oak tree. Her voice was light as the wind, rich as the earth, carrying melodies that made the soul ache. It was the voice of the heavens—pure, lovely, warm. The god called out but the girl continued to sing. So, the god drew closer until they were right in front of the girl. The girl stopped singing and when she turned to them, her gaze was distant.

The god spoke and she stared. She stared not at them but at the lips. 

The god hesitated to say anything. Then made hand gestures.

She could not hear.

The god sat beside her and wrote on her hand. 

“How do you sing so beautifully if you cannot hear the notes?” they asked.

The girl smiled, “I do not need to hear them. I feel them.” 

She placed her hand along with theirs to the grass. 

 “The rhythm is in the pulse of the earth, the notes are the breeze tickling the skin, the song is within. Music is not sound—it is emotion, in the way laughter dances, in the way sorrow lingers.” She wrote. Then placed her hand over her heart. 

She began singing. The melody was fresh, clean, and deep. 

The god had never thought of it that way. They had always believed that mortals needed their guidance, their divine touch, to create something truly beautiful. But this girl had never heard a single note, prayed a single prayer, and yet she sang.

That night, as the god sat by a quiet stream, they traced patterns in the water, lost in thought. Perhaps inspiration did not flow from them alone. Perhaps it had always been within mortals themselves. But even as the thought surfaced, doubt followed. Could a beauty thrive without the god?

They needed to see more. For the journey now was to seek answers. 

Further on their journey, they came across a city where a painter was the focus in the marketplace. A crowd had gathered, whispering in awe.

The god drew closer and saw why.

The paintings were unlike anything they had ever seen; scenes that captured the soul of a place that stirred longing. Colors blended with impossible harmony, shadows and light breathed life into the ink that seemed to whisper forgotten dreams.

And yet, the artist himself was blind. 

The god watched, silent, as the painter dipped his fingers into vibrant hues, his movements steady, certain. Each stroke of the brush was deliberate, as though he saw more clearly than those who stood around him. 

But something was amiss. The painter dabbed into the colors with careful consideration. But a few times a young boy who sat next to the paints would hand the jar and announce its color. A felloe onlooker commented on the painter’s eyes and it made sense.

“How can you paint,” the god finally asked, “when you have never seen color?”

The painter chuckled. “Who said I have not seen it? I have felt the warmth of the sun, the cool embrace of the night, the pulse of a storm. My fingers trace the faces of loved ones, the bark of trees, the curve of a river’s edge. I do not need eyes to know beauty.”

The god felt something shift inside them, a crack in the foundation of everything they had believed. They had thought art was something only they could bestow, a divine gift that mortals reached for. But this man, sightless, had crafted something greater than the god had ever imagined.

That night, they wandered the streets, watching candlelight flicker in windows, hearing the distant hum of life. They had spent so long believing they were the source of all art. But had they been wrong? Was it not their presence that shaped creation, but something deeper, something mortal hands had always held?

And yet, doubt still lingered. Like a itch unable to fade.  They needed to see more.

Days passed, and the god found themselves in a quiet monastery where travelers gathered around a single figure—a storyteller who never uttered a word.

With only their hands, their eyes, the tilt of their head, the storyteller spun entire worlds. They wove tragedies with their fingers, painted comedies with their gestures, shaped epics in the way their body moved. The listeners gasped, laughed, wept—enthralled, lost in the magic of unspoken tales.

The god watched, entranced. When the tale was finished, they finally stepped forward. “How do you tell such vivid stories without a voice?”

The storyteller only smiled, touching a hand to their heart.

Because stories did not belong to words alone.

Because art did not belong to gods alone.

The god of art stood at the edge of the world, staring at the sky that had once been their home.

They had fled because they believed they carried the burden of creation alone. But the deaf singer, the blind painter, the mute storyteller—they had never needed divine hands to shape their masterpieces. Art had never belonged to the gods.

It had always lived in the souls of mortals.

For the first time in eternity, the god felt light.

With a quiet smile, they turned back and began their journey home—not as a weary god burdened with expectation, but as a muse who would walk among artists, learning as much as they inspired.

For art was not a gift to be given.

It was a fire that burned in all who dared to create.

By Joanne Koshy