I am in awe of the artist who looks at a blank canvas and sees the masterpiece it will become and then, tracing the lines in their mind, brings it to life in a spine-tingling thrill. I am struck dumb by the musician pulling notes from his head straight through the instrument in his hands in an array of bewitching notes that entrance even the foulest of creatures. I am overcome by the magnificence of the sculptor, revealing the beauty of the intricate and detailed beast within the craggy slab of stone that once lay before all, shapeless and sad.
All are feats that make the most proud of men lowly and humbled by such inspired creations. And like all artists, I bend backward and forward, looking at the blank paper before me and working to discover what it is that lies beneath the blanket of shapelessness that so many others see, so that I can reveal the beauty of it that all others would miss.
It is a push and a pull. We are ever the curious, the scientists of creation, attempting to discover the undiscovered, to describe the indescribable, and to attempt the impossible. We push boundaries that we will learn to never push again, we find caverns that lead to other worlds, and we feel the wind in our fingers and the rain on our faces more than all others would dare to experience.
I am excited to be blessed with the gift to see past the lines on a page. I may long to see the master canvas before its painted and the vase before its spun, but I can weave a world in my mind that no one else can see. It is up to me to share.
And every day I think of what the world has yet to see in me, I ache to make my fingers all the lighter and swifter in their strokes.
Oh if I create it, and still they will not look? Then I will dance among its forests and be the master storyteller in its midst, dreaming of worlds upon worlds without a care in this one. And that is how it shall be.
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