My life stretches before me as a canvas with etchings and remnant paint from work past— of other people and of mine.
I do not seek to work with a new canvas but instead to take the one that I have been given—whether blank or full of inscrutable writing or colorful oil, I cannot say. That which I can say is that I will paint over the paint that others have haphazardly thrown upon it, or I will add texture to the dexterous work of others.
Though full of immolating self doubt, I will not shy away from it. I do not know what the final product will look like. I do not know if it will be a masterpiece. But what I do know is that everyday I will examine it and see another dimension I hadn’t seen before and explore it.
I will care for it. Though it may wither from the elements or fall victim to a hapless exchange to foolish hands, all things that have happened for time immemorial have remained so such that I will let it be and work with it, still pouring my full love and affection, still living and embracing and letting the tears run down and onto it, or the blood seep ever slowly, as it breaks the tension of unfamiliar surfaces and finally onto its destination, searching until it settles and dries and becomes one.
With the rising of the sun and its subsequent setting I will strive to immerse myself into the substance of that very feeling that came so freely to me in my childhood, the subtle hints of color that transcend description and captured my empty gaze, as I soaked in the shapes in relation to the place that hosted them, and in so doing was inadvertently stroking the canvas using the brush of my thought.