When it's near, I feel the most beautiful turmoil. On one account, it brings joy and a sense of serenity to my naturally chaotic mind. It's almost like it speaks to me. It tells me that no matter what I do with it, I will always find peace and acceptance. Nothing of which I produce with it's soft flowing dye can possibly be anything less than divined by the greater powers that be. What those powers are is still to be determined. Where they reside, I have yet to discover. How to access them at will is but another mystery to me. Even in the randomness of it's production though, my soul breathes freedom as it soars across the page.
On the other account, I get a feeling that I'm being taunted. Perhaps it's just projection by the natural tendencies of it's master. Is it possible to imprint human emotion upon an inanimate object? An existential question for the void. While one side of the personality I understand is nurturing, the other side is nothing less than antagonistic. I feel a sensation of something reminiscent of playground bullying if the bully is really your best friend. Is it the doubt surfacing or could it possibly be the playful child inside just testing the boundaries to be invited out to play? Peek-a-boo. Neener-neener you can't catch me.
I have yet to produce a modern masterpiece with it's splendid support but it brings a level of intrigue to what I once considered a mundane activity. That in itself has, I am glad to say, whispered sweet songs of the morning to the sleeping artist. If the playful child is in fact peeking out to find a playmate, I have faith that with a bit of tenderness, that masterpiece is quick to follow.