Sprinkled and sprayed, it wasn’t the colors that I speak of but the eloquence of the words painted from one heart to another. Poetry no doubt yet beyond distance and time it traveled, fast, free and secure. You pick up a brush and soak in it till it absorbs all it can, cutting out the splatter and with each stoke give out an expression from within beyond words an within this message only true to the one who wields the brush. Yet for a building many would come and go, for a portrait generation will come to applaud your deed but until then in the generation you are in, you’re nothing but another person with a boring or abnormal trade in abilities. It’s the story of many minds of old, few celebrated as artist, many whose works only receive praise long after they’ve died. The question remains a mystery what inspires one to paint in words or colors, does the message get decrypted right or are mere assertions and interpretations birthed from mistakes and things the painter never intended or even noticed. Either way an art is formed, minds are filled with the task of decoding a message that may or may not be yet a trade ones neglected has inspired many professions on both sides of the legal fence. Which is easier then, to paint or to decipher meaning from what’s left that’s a question from a brush to you today. Think – you never know.

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