When we start out on the journey called life we are blank sheets of translucent paper. Age gives us the strength and permanence of stretched canvas, experience gives us color. Some people attack their canvas fearlessly, lashing out in oils of every hue. Others give much more thought and planning to the final result, keeping that image in mind as the brushes meander across it’s surface. I am unfortunately a paralyzed artist. My hands don’t work, torn between conflicting desires of impulse and planning, delicacy and boldness. I have forsaken paint for pencil. My canvas is a spiders web of tracings that masks even further the intent. Scared of going forward because of what I might leave behind, I’m going nowhere.
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abigailgingrich posted this
