I have the blues and the purples, the yellows and the greens, the oranges and the pinks. They all lay in puddles on my paint pallet, waiting to be apart of an experience not many can share with a paint brush and paper. I look out at the vast atlantic ocean and lightly squirt a dollop of white, wanting to make the most perfect blue any little boy or grandmother has ever seen. My eyes gaze over my very own muse, some would call it. The ocean itself is a well practiced artist. It delicately paints the earth and land among it. Bending and curving it to it’s own liking. Then if it is not correct, it can burry it and start again. It’s beautiful blue-white waves carve the beach, and form it so it is perfectly flawless.
As I pick up my brush to paint a master in the middle of his greatest work, I look at the colors on my pallet once more. The blues and the purples, the yellows and the greens, the oranges and the pinks. And the one plop of added white, to make the most perfect blue