The Painting

This was written during college, a time mostly remembered for long walks and pages of notebook paper trying to find myself.  And once I did, I would promptly lose myself which necessitated the need to find myself again.  It was like psychological golf.  Get the ball, knock it away, go get the ball.  Go find myself, lose myself, go find myself.  Yep.  Many holes played.  Many fairways walked.

I walk toward an unnoticed horizon, feeling alone.

Looking up, I'm stunned into stillness by the beauty of a glowing sunset.

An unseen brush paints gossamer clouds with oranges, then pinks, then purples, all synchronized effortlessly with the ever darkening sky.

Loneliness shoots through me as I long to share this moment with someone.

Turning from the fading splendor, I tighten my grip on despondency.

Then it happens.

My heart hears a laugh – no, not a laugh, really.   More like a lover’s chuckle.

A still Voice tells me I am always understood and I'm never alone.

Whirling about, I frantically search for the owner of the Voice - and recognition makes me smile in embarrassment.

It's the Painter.