Waiting

The sands continue in a downward drift. Only a small pinch of grains remain. Suspended in the hourglass, they await their fall, as do I.

No force can persuade the grains to fall, and so I wait. The time will come.

Patience is an important factor in this project, but I did not anticipate holding my brush in the air so long. My arm grows weary and I thirst for that initial stroke. That stroke will be the first time the empty, dreary wall will greet it's long-awaited partner, a brush dripping with direction, dreams, mistakes, and lessons-learned. That stroke will evolve into a path that dances along the once-unlit wall.

I have painted for myself a starting line. I can see the path. It remains in the handle of the brush I hold above my head. My shoes are laced. My brush is ready. But the race has not yet begun, frozen in time like the grains of sand in the hourglass. And so I wait.