It is the only thing that knows me. I am the only one who shows it. One clean canvas with a smooth field and ivory spread. One unpainted picture hanging on the wall. From the kitchen you I can see it, but everybody else just passes and ignores what could be.

Its beauty is imagined. It ignites inspiration from the heart. It’s waiting now and will be then and pulls with its unpainted story and can not be forgotten until completed. This is how it inspires.

Let it be passed, it remains hanging, still bone white. Feel, feel, feel, the canvas says as I stare. It lives.

When I am too stressed to feel, when I am a tiny thing against so many bricks, then it is I look at the canvas. When there is too much to deal with up there. The canvas that is painted despite overload. One who inspires feeling and does not forget to feel. One whose only reason is to relieve and relieve.