A tortured artist’s muse, an abstract concept that could never truly be defined. Though, they tried. Aspiring Picasso’s came like passerby’s, setting up their easels, trying to capture the essence of a moment. An ever changing scenery in constant flux. A single clip of time, forever evading the masterpiece. There was only ever a beginning, as frustrations with the unrelenting storm tore the portrait to the ground with each passing breeze. They failed to see the beauty in starting each day with a blank canvas, always determined to brush every stroke perfectly into place before the sun set. The love for the view was lost, so desperate to embody it completely they forget to appreciate it entirely, as layers of color paint a picture of indifference. But tell me Pablo, would you label the bird as callous for wanting to leave the branch...or would you gaze with the all the wonder of life watching it flap its wings?