Only Art Remains

You are born in a certain way and Life treats you accordingly. This is no sermon for coaches, your self proclaimed saviours or the bestselling author of Control thy Life. But the older you get, the more obvious it is that things happen for little reason at all, paths on the journey were taken quite randomly albeit irrevocably and whatever patterns that you may see are seen in hindsight, invented afterwards. Still we become what we are. (We need not necessarily like it.) And soon we are no more.

As we drag along, we might leave traces, like the slime after a snail. Some leave genes, others good deeds or a name in a book or -- very common -- nothing. I think that, for better and worse, there'll be little left behind me but a few paintings. Some details of this week were painted feeling hope and through some I felt pain -- it already doesn't matter which was when. Only art might remain. And I was born that way.

The biological clock -- or whatever it is -- is finished and funnier with colours on. This week also brings us a dragonfly or damselfly -- and rose painted during perfect distraction, thoughts and petals wandering strange ways -- a dear friend thought that it looked like it wanted to eat her -- nibble, munch and bite -- well, my thoughts were consumed already, and it was thus her turn...