I can't seem to keep my eyes off her beautiful brush strokes. Her fingers wrapped gently around the handle . . . swiftly yet carefully pushing. Her eyes are stern and focused. She bites her bottom lip, and takes a step back to look at her masterpiece. I am sitting at a desk not to far away, maybe about 10 feet. I've been watching her paint for the last hour . . . and yet did she know I was?
I don't believe so. I think if she did then she would of gave me some sort of eye contact . . . or a reaction at least. I'm not so sure if I really even wanted her to notice me. If she saw me, what if she got the idea I was a freak watching her? What if she got the wrong idea?
You see, I am a writer. To me, writing is just like a painting. Paintings speak words that you don't hear, but you think. Writings is words that you don't hear but you read in your head. I wasn't always into writing, until I realized I didn't feel like I was saying enough by just saying words . . . I needed a way to express them in a different way.
As I watched her paint, she was talking to me in a way she probably doesn't even know. The painting was so eye-opening and beautiful. Simply, and indescribably beautiful. It made me feel peaceful. It made me feel love, happy, understand . . . Do you get what I mean?
I would write what the painting was . . . but I don't think it can be put in words. Just like you couldn't paint what I am writing about right now. Words you speak can be quoted and repeating, but you can't repeat the words of a painting. That would just be impossible.
So as I am sitting here in thought . . . writing this whole story in my head . . .
She takes a step back to look at her masterpiece. Looks back at me, and smiles.
