Canvas

She twisted her hair and threw it back. They fell till her waist. She shrugged her head, shaking it with the towel in her hand. She pulled a chair and sat in the balcony. Living alone for many years in her flat, she was habitual of looking out of the window and staring into the monotony of the sky.

“It isn’t monotonous,” she says.

But isn’t it? What is there to enjoy about the sky?

“The clouds,” she answers.

But how much can clouds fascinate someone?

“Very much,” she believes.

She then pulled a paper—a big canvas rather—and started painting. She stroked the brush on the canvas but the brush treated her as a canvas instead. What a beautiful sight to see! A beautiful creation was creating another one with the strokes of her brush.

She loved her own company. She worked on her own—by herself, with herself.

“All I require to survive is art,” she says.

But isn’t this somehow true for all humans?

“Indeed, it is. Humans need art to live. Oxygen and other vital components only help in survival and sustenance but those are different from living life,” she says.

She is here to live, not to survive nor to sustain.

What is she about to create? I wonder. She says that she also doesn’t know. She will figure it out on the go. That is strange.

“Well, among many other things that life is, it is also sometimes strange, isn’t it?” she counters.

Can I argue with her? Do I have anything to argue against what she is saying? I don’t think so.

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