Wednesday, March 30, 2011

the loss and the 1.61803399

the artist works solemnly in the attic by his lonesome. with only the tools of his trade as company and the splinters of light through the windows. the canvas was slowly brought to life by the exquisite strokes and elegant flicks of the wrists. his work of art depicts a portrait of a lady, shown regal of stature and of stellar beauty.

he seemed adamant to finish a part of the painting with painstaking small strokes, to achieve the finest details. as he finishes, he stopped to look at the dozens of paintings behind the canvas identical to the one that he was painting. he sighed a forlorn hush of words and recalls a time long ago.

"why do thee still paint this portrait?", she asks in a tone of quiz and worry.

"i have yet to achieve perfection on this particular painting, love", he answered as he resumed his painting, after that momentary glance at her.

"thou certain? i believe it was flawless pieces of art, 10 paintings ago," she said in astonishment. she quipped in anger, "have tis become thine obsession, for how many moons now?"

"ah, love. thou do not understand. thine beauty escapes even the best of artistry that i possess", he explains himself calmly. "for thine beauty is perfection, and for i am not god. forever i will paint this portrait until life and soul escapes this body of mine"

the artist weary of his work for the day. he was set to gift his empty stomach a full meal of dinner, smiling to himself. slowly making his way down the attic and towards the kitchen. he walks through a hallway full of paintings hung high until the ceilings of the lady he deemed perfection.

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