I Am The Artist

This paper is my canvas. This pencil my paintbrush. These words my masterpiece. I am the artist. An abstract thought enters my head as I stare at the blank canvas. My hand automatically reaches for the paintbrush next to me. A few strokes of purple, red, and green, suddenly my painting is complete. I lean back to admire what I've done. At fist I'm dazed, as the paintings complexity swallows my immense intrigue. I blink a few times to make sure my eyes aren't playing tricks on me. They aren't. I look again, deeply. Compassionately. When I spot two faces screaming angrily at each other through a fiery breach. A once abstract painting, is now a realistic image. To the untrained eye this painting remains just that... a painting, but to the artist it is much more than that. It is the wind that shakes the autumn leaves to the wintry ground. The ocean that mirrors the moon. The heat that symbolizes the soul. Without it there could be no me. I am the artist.

*I had to write this for a class. let me know what you think. thanks.*