In life, we often hold In tension, like tendons pulled taut across a frame of bones, A balance of two. On one, we seek what is easy. Our basest natures strive For peace and shelter Above all else. That we should live, procreate, and survive, That we should want quiet, And exist in the downtempo reverie Of contented existence.
On the other, we hope.
Our brains rage against the quiet,
And our bodies stand at the ready,
A horse, chomping at the bit,
Stomping hooves and snorting,
A bundle of unrest
In a sea of desire.
Those two existences,
That of peace and that of worry,
That of complacency and that of ambition
Pull at the edges of my being,
An ancient struggle
Beset on all sides,
A white canvas, held in place,
Waiting for the brush.
But what is the right way to begin a masterpiece?
A bold stroke,
Or a careful one?
A splash of color,
Or an easy base coat?
And caught between
The safe and the daring
Sits I, in danger.
A sense of doom settling upon my heart
The danger of a painting
Ruined by an overeager hand,
A color that cannot be undone,
A hasty line uselessly bisecting the composition.
Or the danger of a painting much ado about nothing,
A mess of bland pastels and boring greys,
Technically a finished piecce, but
The epitome of mediocrity…
Or perhaps there looms
The greatest danger of all —
A life of sitting,
Held so frozen by the tension
That there will be no painting at all.
