Every color stirred the same amount of times.
Every line drawn with perfect symmetry.
Only one color used at a time so as not to dirty my bristles.
I lay my bristles on you, a blank canvas.
I force my bristles to move in certain directions, the movement throughout acquiring exact lines, perfection.
Refusing to let my bristles rid me of my control, my vision of perfection.
I step back and look at my work.
Hoping for a rainbow filled with promises in each band of color, promises of beauty.
I see none.
I see only what I forced my bristles to paint with perfection.
I see the color, I see the lines, but I see them separately, they have no semblance of beauty the lines and colors are dull, working against each other.
I resign myself to failure.
I put myself and my bristles into the cup of water.
With all hope of perfection and beauty and faith lost in myself I begin to cry adding to the water.
I look down and see a murky pool of water; murky pool of colors, lines, perfection and control.
I’m being lifted out, leaving behind the old colors and lines, perfection and control.
My bristles are being dipped into two, three, and four colors at a time.
I can’t do anything about it; my perfection and control have been given over to the water washed down the drain.
I’m being brushed on a new canvas in every which direction, lines unequal, colors not separated, bristles being ripped away from each other in opposing directions.
No longer in control, no longer a feeling of perfection.
I can only image that what has just happened to me will be even further from beauty.
I’ve been placed down. I look cautiously at what has happened and I’m astounded.
The means by which this canvas was covered were foreign to me.
But, you could see the rainbow filled with promises in each band of color, promises of beauty.
You could see beauty, you could feel the faith.
water, we no longer relish for the murky water to return, for perfection, for control.
