It's a shame I don't have enough talent to paint me into a landscape without you. Each stroke more involuntary than the next, the canvas pulling my brush around until the end result resembles the shape of your face. I am never surprised by the finished product, though I always hold out for the hope that I'll be struck by a different muse, just once.
I've taken enough art classes to be able to draw a portrait with a slightly askew composition. It never ends up being balanced, acceptable, textbook. It never mirrors what I really see, no matter who or what is sitting in front of me, anxiously awaiting a masterpiece.
For that reason alone I've laid down my brush, keeping it hidden in a blue, wooden box in my closet amidst a myriad of muddled, half-finished images waiting to be redrawn. I am conscious of them, always, propped in the back of my closet, silently proclaiming my imperfections.
It is only in the past month or so that I've realized that there are people out there that think flawed can be beautiful. And worthy of display. And unique and wonderful and all the things I see when I pick up my brush but cannot seem to paint.
Perhaps it's time then to get out my hammer and nails and hang them as is, a testament to a life in progress.
