An empty canvas stands before us. We stare into the vast spread of nothingness as the artist works through his mind to create an imagery only he can see. We’re left in the dark, we haven’t come to life, yet we trust the one with the brush and all the colours in his hands. His works of the past surely speak for him as we can clearly see, so though we are still wet paint on his pallet, soon we’ll dress the canvas well.
His first coat of white brings us all to life; the birth of every one of us starts the story to be told. Our first cries, each a drop of paint that wears his brush like drapes of silk and wets the surface with every stroke. The canvas, though once white with nothing, looks a lot whiter now, white with life, white with hope; the start of something new, assuring us that no matter what other colours fill the space, there’ll always be white beneath, hope that’ll never be erased.
Green, blue, purple, red and white still; that degree, that job, that house with the picket fence. She said ‘yes‘ when he made another red stroke, blending into the horizon her beautiful white dress, with the ‘gold’ looking lovely on that finger to the right. A chaos of colours commingling in sweet harmony, as we smile at the workings of both hands and mind of great divine, knowing for a fact that he does all things well.
Soon the dark shades start to appear as light casts a shadow to welcome reality. The greys around the edges push the image out of the canvas, giving it dimension, bringing it to life. What was once flat now takes on a certain depth only dark shades can create, and each stroke of black or grey brings pain we want to wish away. That loss, that sickness, that sudden death of a loved one may not be bright, but that’s it’s purpose, that’s the only way perspective can take flight.
Many dark shades have graced this piece of art, and still the work is yet undone, but there’ll be more white strokes to come, with sparkles of beautiful colours as the work goes on.
I, once a white dot, now on my rainbow journey, might soon take on a dark shade to shape the edges of history. But one thing is for sure, when the artist makes his final stroke and puts down his brush, I shall stare at the beauty of his piece forever, and be glad that somehow I was a stroke or two is his perfect work of art.