brush

On the canvas of life,Every sweep of the brush matters,Counts for something_

I will preach with my brush.

With the brush we merely tint, while the imagination alone produces colour.

Every life is a canvas and every interaction is a brush, therefore we__ be wise to consider how we handle the paint.

But every stroke of the brush, every lyric, every word whispered between human beings resulted from the pain of being alone. In our haunted heads, our imperfect bodies. Islands carved from clay and bone, our skulls like shells full of mist.

I wish I had a brush that could paint the whole sky and turn every morning into night. I wish I could always sleep next to you in the never ending night and hold your hand, watching the reflection of all the stars in your eyes, while you smile and watch them in the sky with wonder.