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The Paintbrush

So stands a solitary paintbrush in an otherwise empty cup; a lidless glass jar whose origins and prior purposes have faded from the fabric of remembrance. There are no other brushes; there is but this one. With bristles dry and misshapen, handle scratched, stained, and worn with use, this brush sits patiently in its cup near the window that separates an unwarm room from endless grey sky.

Within two arm’s length rests the blank canvas propped up by an easel unseen in a careless shadow. The canvas stares coldly at the openness of the surrounding room, in potentia, without regard for you, dear paintbrush. It only waits for someone to stare back with love, intent, and purpose.

So waits the paintbrush – the enabler of greatness that one day might manifest simply as treachery upon a depthless plane. “The word is not the thing!” But all that ever will be, already is, and so always has been.

Stillness removes value from time, dear paintbrush. The world is not ready.

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