It has been awhile sinced I last paiηted.
Months melted as I purged my çhamber of old works; my drafts, my sketched paper, 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 like dice as I tried ironning out its moth-maimed edges. The feel 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 long 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, spread, swirl.
I had once stood inside it.
I stood inside it then.
I stand inside it now, thís paiηting çhamber, comforted, collected, feeling the fresh rush to start once more. And the canvas on the table 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.
As I look at the grandfather clock with its weighty pendulum, I know I have renewed time.
