Months melted as I purged my çhamber of old works; my drafts my sketched cover notebooks post-its — all murmuring with memories as I smoothed them out folded them up and relegated them to various carton boxes.
Then, there was my previous canvas thickish largish oldish; a decayed or decaying mammoth emanating a strangely mildly pleasant smell. The many tales it held, of hurt hearts, dismantled dreams fragmented flotsam and yesteryear’s jetsam clacked desire dice as I tried ironning out its moth-maimed edges. The conclude of it — its elephant-skin texture tattooed with faint blotches of history — ran electrically past between my fingers reverberating briefly as I closed the lid sealed the box tagged on it ENWINA.
It was then it started to rain. So desire it had not. It was then; first in mist-spray then in large pearl drops. Wind whistled sounds sang. And everything at that point that moment, began to swing move go around.
I rest inside it now, thís paiηting çhamber comforted collected, feeling the fresh rush to start once more. And the beg on the delay is beckoning — this time it is a different canvas; a different one in a season of a different I altogether.
My trusty paiηter’s tools are itching to twirl again. I could hear them whispering excitedly that day when I refilled the holder with the rain.
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