image: the unfinished Adoration of the Magi by Leonardo da VinciThis my dear reader, is the story of a painter.
As of this very moment, it has been exactly twenty years since she touched a brush. Not from the lack of time. After all twenty years is too long to allow for time as an excuse. Not from a lack of inspiration either, for every change in season brings about its own stirrings in one's soul. Nay, she stopped painting from a complete lack of will, using the only excuse she deemed permissible - that she was not good enough and lacked at imagination, the one innate gift that could not be learned through laborious study.
And at this very moment, she wonders if she was happier then in pursuit, or now in appreciation. And contrary to the countless examples of resentment and of repressed lives, she concludes that she is satisfied. That she had grown into being happy, just as she had grown into being in love. After all, one never realizes when one stops pretending.
4 comments:
identify with the sentiment...couldnt get the context.
A self inflicted wound? Penance? Sacrifice? And an inexplicable satisfaction at having given it up… for someone/self?
But 20 years hence it’s perhaps ok (sensible?) to salvage happiness from it … no point in being depressed about it now and collecting more regrets…
PS: The comparison with growing in love… that was not self infliction too no? That would be depressing!
On another tack- she should pick up the brush now. Never too late.
And on yet another tack- How is your guitar coming along!? :)
The last line is a killer Fuzzy
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