Breaking Tradition

I happen to be an aborigine to the sea. For decades my people have lived here, chained to this island by the burden of tradition. Every month a party goes out to the mainland to get supplies. I am never allowed to go, being the youngest of 5.

Sometimes I feel like Van Gogh. Like my family doesn't understand me. Like my sadness is just caused by the pressure of what my parents wish me to be. Like art is the only thing that can help. I just hope insanity isn't in my future.

My golden copper hair laced with dirt and sea salt, my sun-tanned skin glossy with sweat. As I trot barefoot down the path with a wicker basket filled with meat, I glance out at the sea. I always hope to see land through the fog, it feels like even the sun can’t burn away the cage the ocean makes.

“Stig!” I hear my mother call, oh how I hate that name.

I run up to the lighthouse and swing open the huge wood door. My father sits in his chair as my mother serves soup in poorly carved birch bowls. My churlish older brother picks at his teeth, watching me walk in.

I am a quiescent soul while my family is loud, I love reading, forests and flowers, while my family love fishing, water and work. I feel like I just don’t fit in, like i’ll never be the large, sturn seamen my father and siblings are.

But when my Oma comes on that rocky ship, she brings books and stories from all around the world. She is my mother’s mother, a traveller and learner. My family listens to traditions, while me and my Oma live to break them.

When we sit for dinner I stare at the sheep abomasum on my plate. Whatever the mainland sends us is what we eat unfortunately. My father tells us that a true seaman never is picky, but I just can't see why you don't travel and get good food instead of eat sheep stomach.

I kick if my shoes and land in my bed. “I hate my life.” I scold, staring into the starry abis.

Once I turn eighteen I'll move away instantly. I'll live in Trondheim and be a painter. Only eating delicacies, I'll live like a king.

Before I go to bed I pray to the norns that they don't take me before I become great.

I had a dream of paintings, I walk through a field of Van Gogh and enter a house of Picasso. I drink the wine of Da Vinci and eat the bread of Mucha. My shawl is Warhol and my mind is of Kahol. The stairs are of Dali and the chair is of Klimt. And then it ends, it may not make sense, but neither does art.