The painting was taking its own course, he didnt think of forcing his brush to create strokes of a certain kind. He had faith in himself, he believed his mastery will create wonders on the white piece of cloth, on the piece of life. But in the meanwhile, colours finished, oils dried up and brushes became hard due to the constant neglect of the overconfident painter. The painting remained incomplete. Though parts of it glowed, even in the sheer darkness, inside a dusty room. It longed for a touch, it longed for some more colours. The hand never arrived again. The hand that it dreamt about, holding a flickering candle, whose touch might create a picture full of incandescent love. And in disgust, it covered itself up in dust. But the painter knows how much he misses his painting, he knows one day the painting will definitely adorn the dreamy walls of his uncertain life. And he believes it will survive through the darkness, he believes it will cleanse itself and wont let dirt ruin itself, ruin the half painted canvas. A painting, no matter complete or incomplete, is the source of life for the painter. :)
Posted on: Wed, 10 Sep 2014 16:23:03 +0000
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