Occasionally, it might have seemed that I was normal. I tried to define myself as an artist, a maverick, a shift off the foundation, but somehow, even now, I am considered a freak. I never belonged.

I began by conforming, adhering to social protocol, advancing my artistic nature even expecting some notice, while I posted my rage on screen or canvas.

I began my autobiography in saturated crimson, adding some sunshine, blurring the lines; shamefully looked for recognition. I added blue, cobalt and forests, the place of mercy and deceit, but not a single soul, not the supposedly loved ones, nor strangers, recognized me in the shadows.

My art show, my only exhibition, my public declaration, was deemed a failure.

I wandered into the alley, lit a joint, listening to the echo of flat champagne, false laughter, and decided right there, amongst the trash bins, the refuse of commerce, I didn't belong.

I walked away, not knowing where I was going.

My name is Jacob Smith. Once upon a time, it was Jazeps Petrovski, a Polish immigrant, whose parents died in a Nazi death camp. I will not name their burial town, not acknowledge my birth. I am Jacob Smith, an obscure, simple man on an assembly line, living in America, the land of dreams. But, mine were buried in Poland.

I arrived on Ellis Island, folded into the skirts of a woman, who for one singular moment had compassion and helped me gain entry into America. Ever since, I have tried not to disappoint or to dishonour my freedom.

I do not know the woman's name who claimed me as her own, but forever, I will remember the tired sweat, the smell of blood imbedded in her skirt, the folds of tweed that freed me from my past and I will always be grateful.

When I stepped on the soil and became an American, I knew there was an obligation, a duty to survive. The woman kissed me on the forehead and walked away. I was sixteen years old.

I am now almost eighty. My obligations have almost come to an end.

My pension from General Motors will support my little bride. Sophia will survive in America, long after my death.

She came to America without a passport, a WOP, and somehow, she too, found a home in America. An Italian beauty, yet we never asked each other about our dreams before we were forced to abandon our innocence.

We found each other in a coffee shop. Both of us were weeping, feeling like lost souls. Somehow our sorrow embraced us and drew us into intimacy. She never complained, she accepted me. We never asked each other questions; afraid of the truth.

The children come each day, patting me on the shoulder, willing me to die. I am not ready and twirl my hand in the air, hoping someone will understand. How can they, when they never saw a single canvas splashed with oils and dreams?

Sophia tries to comfort me, folding my arms, tucking the blanket beneath my torso, patting my forehead and slipping ice chips between my parched lips.

"He has forgotten life," she whispers to the children. "He's lost his mind. It is a reflective gesture. The doctor thinks he still believes he is making cars."

"No," I want to scream. "I simply want to sign my name on this canvas. Just for a moment, I beg God, let me be sane, let me understand why my life ends this way, in loss, despair and regret."

My lips move, twitch, but the room remains silent.