The Artist

Struggling to find himself, alone with his thoughts, he sits by an empty canvas.

He grabs the brush and ponders what color to use.

What color?

Should it be bright and joyous for all the wonderful times he’s had in his life? Like the day he got married and the birth of his first child.
Or the moment he started his own business and the praise he got from family and friends? Those, those were moments of glory for him, filled with yellows, greens, and pure shades of indigo.

What color?

Should it be dark and foreboding for the several years of depression and exile in his life? Like the day he walked in on his wife having an affair with his business partner? Or the moment he was left with nothing after the divorce when she ran off with his business partner who took with him all of their business contacts? Those, those were moments of truth, hate, and deception for him, filled with blues and reds.

What color?

He takes a clear cup and fills it with layers of green, yellow, indigo, blue, and red paints. He carefully submerges the brush deep, deep inside the cup to ensure he passes through each layer of color. He realizes that he would not be himself if it were not for those dark days of reds and depressing shades of blue. He would not have known what makes him happy if it weren’t for the vibrant yellows and forgiving greens. They were all necessary and it would be trivial to choose, for he can’t choose to change what’s happened to him, only choose to consume it as a whole and accept his past as a canvas for his future.

He wisps the brush over the canvas allowing the paint to fall wherever it pleases. He is content with his mess, his art, himself.

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