In The Depths of Paint

I often sit at my table or easel, staring at a nearly finished masterpiece. All it needs is my signature and perhaps a few more strokes after that, to make it complete. Even then, it is hard for me to place my brush down. As I sit there wondering, I look back and recollect when this canvas was blank. When this canvas was a white sheet of nothing waiting to bare a creation not yet made.
I remember the longs hours I would stare at that canvas, lost in thoughts and images of what I should make. What story should leave my mind and become present to the world? After hours turned into days, I could feel the brush tremble in my hands.
I had too many stories, ideas, and pictures racing in my mind to choose. My trouble was I could never choose just one and even if I did, I would only end in the pattern of how I should portray this image. What colors should use? How large should the picture be? What is the texture? Should it be a hidden meaning or clear? Realistic or abstract?
Being able to paint in many forms brings these troubles. I would get so frustrated; I would throw my brushes across the room, screaming, unable to put out what I wanted. I would leave everything out and alone, as I sulked in a corner, hating myself for not being able to put at least a few strokes upon the canvas.

After another long week I would gather myself, back up remembering the picture is still undone, and so the picture is still unseen.
I would sit back before my canvas and make my selection of brush or pallet knife. Ready, I prayed one prayer, and took in one breath. With my hands ready, I buried myself in paint. I chose colors of warmth, ones that reminded you of heat, and anger. Placing them in the sky and making them into a resting sunset. The yellows bleed from the horizon line onto the not yet seen ocean that has just come to my mind. However this sunset is being over taken, not by night, but by a storm. A storm a gray and violent black filled with anger of thunder. The waves!!! The waves must be violent! They must battles each other. The greens and indigos must be in combat and against each other, yet flow as one. They must crash upon the jagged rocks that pierce through its surface. They must whirl and scream, as the sky thunders in unison. Wind! How do you paint wind? Wind has no color, but it has motion. The tree must bend back, straining to stay with the ground. The grass must be whirled in every direction. The grains of sand must be detail and solid, yet moved by it all. Each element and form, must be individual, yet flow....

As I sit painting, or stand forcing the paint from the bristles of my brush, I lose my conscious state for awhile, and then quickly return as I reach for another color.
I now sit before a nearly finished masterpiece, wanting to place another final stroke for the tenth or eleventh time. No matter how long an artist has been an artist, the one thing we never learn is to finally… stop.

I stand taking a few steps back to give it one last look, before someone or something must call my attention. As I walk backwards towards the stairs another battles must come up...what words are to used for the title.
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One bristle of a brush with a little bit of paint, can make one line. Join thousands of them together and they make one stroke to a becoming a masterpiece.
-Unknown