from pieces to peace

I have not known peace while in amongst my craft for many years. You could say, since I was a child. Today, the 15th of May in the year of 2024, that changed. Finally. It was not a piece of mastery or great skill, it is not even the most clever of all my works, but it made peace known to me. So it is of great value. 


I had missed my paintbrush like no other, like nothing before it. The way it moved, carried colour in an oh so specific way, there’s not much else like it. And I had missed it dearly. Much like I imagine I would miss my hand were it parted from me, or my lung. 


It is possible I was created to paint. Not because I would count myself a master of the art, I wouldn’t, but because of the affection I carry for its beauty. For the simple rhythm of it. Its intricacies and simplicity’s all counted the same to me, it is a love I carry for painting. Beyond that I cannot explain it, for English fails me so in this matter. I love painting the way I love the wind, and the way it whistles through treetops and makes music of the earth. I love painting, I imagine, quite like the way I love myself. With great emotion and fevered battle. It is not always easy. 


But it is a piece of me so I cannot abandon this fight, this war. For it has been a war to return my one great love. Years of toiling, tears, and pulling of hair, I am no more beautiful for it. But even knowing all the blood it has taken me to get here, I would still chose this path, however idiotic that paints me. 


It is not a great painting, not in way of skill or concept. It is simple. But it is not the content that makes some art great but the feeling. The way the brush felt in my hand as it touched the paper. The way the water beaded on the pallet. The simple, small, intricacies easily missed by the inexperienced and over experienced alike. I do not take it for granted, I cannot anymore. It is all counted a blessing. A home I was not entitled to return to, and yet was given the gift of. 


I am more thankful today than I was yesterday, and I fear that makes me weak but it simply marks me human. I believe it all too obvious this be the evidence of the poet and the painter shaking hands, perhaps forming an alliance. One to make my life more difficult and therefore more interesting. I never promised myself an easy life, but on days like today I can’t help but feel the sweetness of this victory. 




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