It’s not amusing anymore. It’s dead. Maybe I should have fed it? Did I let this happen? Not understanding why it's so intense (after all, it’s just a mouse), my mind was torn by a barrage of thoughts pelting my head, like stones thrown in a medieval square, from feelings of compassion, guilt, and pain that clenched my heart and didn’t let go. Breathing was heavy, my head spun, and I wanted to run—but from whom and where to? I was inclined to sleep and was already heading to my sleeping bag when the idea struck to unleash this energy onto a canvas, here and now. I couldn’t wait for materials; there was only a roll of canvas, meaning everything else had to be found. This would surely distract and center me, redirecting the energy, and I felt that this was exactly what was necessary.

Here began a new quest. The first task was easy: I obtained white paint from the builders. On the next level, I had to find artistic paint, any type. It turns out there was a storeroom with supplies, but first, I had to locate the keeper of the storeroom. After sharing his story, he posed some questions and only after receiving the correct answers did he grant access to his wares, where I found only black paint, a little brown, and a hint of copper, matching the color of the altar tray.

Why did it have to leave the warmth of the fireplace before its demise and rest on the cold metal? Thoughts continued to assault me.

The next challenge was vague: I had to find something to stretch the canvas on. A construction pallet seemed perfect. It had to be sneaked from the site and transported to the studio. A friend who happened to walk by at the right moment assisted me. The last task seemed the easiest: stretch the canvas, nail it in place, and get started. But the builders took their hammers and nails with them at night.

References to the mouse began to appear everywhere, and scenarios of its life played out in my mind. Why was its impact so profound? This energy needed an outlet.

One of the residents had a stapler, but he adamantly refused to lend it until we smoked shamanic tobacco together. After the ritual, the veil of sorrow lifted, events fell into place, and everything proceeded as if ordained. As clear as everything became in my mind, my body became equally uncooperative. Not knowing up from down, confusing brush from hand, I began to work. It was a cocktail of awareness and pain, periodically brought on by a clenching heart causing physical anguish.

The mouse's act inspired me. Ideally, it should have passed away by the fireplace, but something urged it to the cold copper tray beneath the altar. In its final moments, it made a butterfly's flap, setting off a chain of events.

Once I was asked: if nuclear missiles were headed for my country, and I was the commander-in-chief, would I retaliate? For me, the answer was clear - of course not. If half of all life on Earth had already perished, how could I allow the destruction of the remaining half? Even if it all started from there, even if I'd perish in a minute. That evening, at that large table, I felt alone in my conviction.

Imagine, if this was your last minute. What would you do now?

“In a world where death is hunting for everyone, there can be no small or big decisions.

Here there are only decisions that we make in the face of our imminent death.”

Carlos Castaneda