The canvas just greets me the same old way. Every line I try just fades away. The coffee grows cold in the corner of the room and the window keeps the rain from finding its way through.
When the morning breaks too slow, when I've got nowhere left to go, everything I knew about my hands slips away like grains of sand. I don't know me anymore. But the world still has a song.
A mirror talks across the hall. A stranger in the glass. I don't know her at all. The paint dries hard before it gives. The paper takes the line but never lets it live.
When the morning breaks too slow. When I've got nowhere left to go. Everything I knew about my hands slips away like grains of sand. I don't know me anymore. But the world still has a song.
You see, they don't tell you this part. Every painter you admire, every name on the wall. Da Vinci, Rothco, the ones we call great. They all sat in the same chair. They all watched the canvas refuse them. The Romans called it a visit from a missing god. The French called it the empty page. We call it art block.
And the cure is never in the canvas. The cure is in the world outside the door. A laughter you didn't hear before. A color you forgot was yours. At Mayan art, we open the windows and let a new beauty walk in.
And then one morning the light comes in a color I had never seen walks softly in. A song outside my window. A stranger's laughter on the street. A small thing suddenly so sweet. The world still has a song. The world still has a song. And I, I'm learning how to listen.