smear the paint of moments across the canvas of life.
Every strike begins full and slowly dissipates,
as it grows weak and loses its color.
Towards the end, every brush is left light.
The weight of the moment has left it and become one with the canvas.
Dipped again into the mounds of vibrance,
hoping for another opportunity,
another lift in confidence;
the artist looks down at the palette,
and sees that no matter the options of colors,
only one works.
Lifting the brush to the canvas takes a toll in itself.
Holding all the tools in hand,
the artist still fears the color might not be right.
What if this color ruins the painting?
What if this choice ruins my life?
Every color and every stroke
a step towards finding what one sought.
Ah, but in the question lies the answer.
The beauty of color is that it molds and changes.
It adjusts to its surroundings,
creating a newfound vision
the artist had never imagined.
Despite the overwhelming doubt,
the color worked.
Stumbling upon an epiphany,
the artist found strength.
Now, it was understood.
The paint and the brush may have been in hand,
but the painting’s destiny lay in the future.
The artist’s vision may have been one,
but the final image was in the Hands of Another.