Muse

I imitate art. I imitate a conception of a creative mind. A blank canvas idling in the corner awaiting utilisation by gifted hands, a brand new page untouched by the inky blots of my writer's pens. I envision perfection already in the eyes of a minimalist but I yearn to encapsulate the beauty of unbridled emotion set free. A showcase of the teeming beauty of expression. To proudly represent the colours of an imaginative maestro. I want to be called a masterpiece, to be so beautiful that it's uncontested!

I now see that the brush is in my grasp. The colours await my mixing and blending. I now remember that my very definition is subjective. My aesthetic charm lies in the eyes of those able to perceive me. I am one of them and my discernment bears more weight than any of theirs. To be able to depict and define beauty I must intrinsically look for it introspectively. I must be able to see it so clearly that I can reflect it as a picture of perfection on my blank canvas. The brush is in the clasp of my grip, the tool awaits my workmanship to create an embodiment of magnificence.

I want to feel like art, not an artist. I desire to be a depiction of excellence without having to find a muse. The stroke of my brush will falter at the weight of the cognition of my own incompetence. I desire the ability to depict beauty drawn from amidst the immense unsightly crevices that spawn it. Maybe the shadowy ugliness is my muse and I can craft an alluring  image on my canvas from it.