A Painting
I'm sitting here, staring at it, the blank space, the canvas upon which I am to create something out of nothing. It stares back, blank and empty.
The artist who paints for the eyes of others, no matter the quality of his art, is not a man, but rather an empty shell; he is nothing more than matter taking up empty space, something that lives and breathes, and yet does neither.
I'm picking my brush up now, but only for a stroke or two, before placing it back down. So often does life catch us up in its whirl of beautiful colours and excitement that we forget our situation. The veil draws tightly over our eyes, and we don't even see it coming.
Suddenly, it is ripped away, and we find ourselves in a desolate land, something out of a Francisco de Goya painting, standing face to face with a giant--the essence of terror: whatever it is that rips us out of the fairytale world--where happiness is as good as the number of TVs in your house--and places us firmly at the mercy of reality. Hurricanes, earthquakes, tsunamis, 9/11, and even more up-close-and-personal than these.
We find we have decayed into nothing more than shells: empty, dusty clay pots taking up space in some Jone's garage. And so we briefly question it, I briefly question...until the artists get back to work and stir up another fury of colours, and taking away our uncertainty...
