Poetry palette

The painter ran his brush here and there on the palette in search for the right colors, while he played his favorite music in the mind. He did not know for sure what the next move would be, but it used to come to him, while he touched in the pan. Like when he put the pen to paper to translate the muses of good cheer impulses to more or less understandable language.

The music was very beautiful, and he both heard and saw the orchestra, while it performed. When a violin solo took over, and when the gentle roaring from the other instruments fell in as they should. He was at a live concert while he searched the manifold areas of the inspirations that should be reflected on the canvas, and although the music opened the doors of the mind with its gentle strength, it bothered nobody else, because nothing of what he heard and saw was accessible to others until the essence of it perhaps was reflected on canvas or paper.

His writing pad lay on a white desk near the easel, and there was also a thermos of good coffee and a cup on a saucer.

Suddenly he became aware that the light in the room had just the same color as reality itself, and he looked uplifted around. Everything he looked at seemed somehow finished, and the musicians had packed their instruments down.

He put the brushes in the beetroot glass with tap water and sat down in his perfect armchair while he reverently and completely relaxed enjoyed this oasis of silent reality. But he rejected all starting surprises that it had not been there all the time. To speculate on this would make too much noise, he felt.

From the armchair slid his calm view onto the coffee cup that was clearly marked by having been in use. And on the white desk, there was old, spilled coffee which had dried and becoming brown spots, but in the light of reality it got the same status as the flowers on the windowsill, and bird song that reached in through the half-open window.