No way will the paint brush ever be my tool again. I have thought about this long and hard and I have come to the conclusion that in no way will the paint brush ever be my tool again.
Three years ago, almost four now, I painted a picture. The picture was exquisite. Every detail was laid bare on the canvas. Every weakness was there to be seen, imprisoned, but visible non the less. And every strength emblazoned to illuminate them. The canvas was one of a kind. A kind of an old soul. More pure than anything. And my how it was painted to perfection, each stroke guaranteed it’s goal. Each sway of the brush involved love, pain, hurt. It was no ordinary painting.
This painting was the path to my heart.
Just like any priceless painting done by geniuses of old, this was kept a secret. Even those who could see the painting, the path was hidden. The secret was preserved, kept from the world. Until one was deemed worthy to be shown the path. And one such appeared from nowhere early 2011. She was mesmerizing, just like my painting. Captivating and full of secrets just like my painting. She promised me treasures in exchange for the secret path. And I obliged. Without hesitation. I handed over my precious painting and showed her the secret path. Genius accepts genius, don’t they?
When she learnt of the path, she ventured in. And it felt warm. It felt cozy. It felt right. But not for long. She wasn’t here for the secret. When she discovered where the path eventually led, she became cold. And she played around until finally she tore the painting apart. She smiled and mumbled something. I later realized what she mumbled. She said my painting wasn’t worth it. Without value. It wasn’t precious and neither was my secret.
I am afraid of painting. I shiver every time I see canvas. The smell of color no longer illuminates the heavens.
No way will the paint brush ever be my tool again.