Most of the times nowadays, I use my canvas as my paper,
My brush as my pen & immerse myself in the world of color,
As a swimmer would dive, yearning for more as soon
As he comes up for breath.
But occasionally, as in this moment, I realize old habits die hard.
Finding myself in the need to search & select thoughts, ponder
On word choices, the turn of a phrase, immortalizing the beauty
Or sadness of the second presenting itself to me, as a gift of life.
Painting is my life, it’s the oxygen I need to sustain my soul
But writing is my life-long-friend.
So old, comfortable, is the only word necessary to describe it.
It’ll knock on my door & step in unannounced, take its place
In that old armchair, so worn one can notice patches where the
Weaving is so loose it holds by the tenacity of the obstinate,
the unyielding…
It sits as if it had never left, happy to mould back into the shapes,
as one. And me, never noticing it had gone.
