And sometimes you feel blank. Not raw and brimming with emotion, but empty, bored, like an eraser rubbed away to the end. Faded, fading, going, gone. Disappearing into nothing.
Those canvases are open whiteness, with only microscopic lines stretching over their surface. Paint smooths over the rough edges, a delicate edition that becomes everything. This drop, this spot, what is it? But, compelled, we stare at it, deciphering it. The plain canvas, etched with fine lines, detailed in rough texture, is nothing. It is blank. Not colourful and eye-catching.
But, fixated only with what is there, the travellers gather. Their thirst is quenched with art, music, words, faces, people, places- the tangible and sensory thrills. Explorers scrounge the world to see the unseen but see not what they have. There is no appreciation for the silent and the still. Muted, deafened, and blind we stand to simplicity.
Always running, never walking, we pass our lives. Searching and finding, but not retaining. We dread the stillness of our beings when we are untouched by life's flavours, because then we can not even fathom the difference between such an unmotivated life and quiet death.
But sometimes, we feel blank.
