a stroke.
a stroke of a paintbrush, to be more specific, not the kind where you fall and die horribly --
but a paint stroke.
when i paint, life feels difficult.
isolated in a room, inhaling paint fumes, watching my money dry up on a palette, this is an understandable feeling.
but occasionally, in the middle of filling in a cheekbone and contemplating getting up to get some tea, it happens.
a single, good stroke is made. and this is usually when life starts to feel much better.
i can build upon that stroke. fix it and fix it and fix it until the entire cheekbone looks good, and then the rest of the cheek, the temples, the forehead, the hair -- and yes, i still **** up but then another good stroke is made.
and another, and another, and another and it gets easier, to make good strokes exponentially
until the canvas is filled and the painting is finished.
ultimately, it is the good stroke that does the painting. without that small leap, gravity would weigh everything down and nothing would be able to soar. the painting could still be done, but not finished, and no fulfillment would be given to the hands that held the brush.
and with that good stroke,
life feels easy.