The Critic

She lived her lifetime by the sea, her life was one of symmetry, the rhythm of the waves, in part, matched the beating of her heart. At every dawn she walked the shore and wondered what she was looking for, it troubled her that she left no trace as she watched her foot prints be erased. The ocean just went on and on ever singing the same sad song, at night the sky was filled with stars the darkness intensified her scars. She tried and tried to paint the sea, an exercise in futility, the watercolors and oil paints restricted her with their restraints. Photography, too, left her cold, nothing captured the ocean's hold, ever changing, never still, sometime's the motion made her ill. As she grew old and stayed abed, the relentless drone played with her head, the sound no longer gave her peace, it maddened her, would never cease. The seagulls that she used to love, now seemed to mock her from above, their calls sounded like dreadful laughter echoing through the wooden rafters. The ocean now just made her sad, the pounding waves soon drove her mad, she closed the shutters, barred the doors, her morning walks she took no more. And on a day of pouring rain, they found her pitiful remains, she lived a life of obscurity and died a death of apathy. Those sent to empty out her house, (she had no family, had no spouse) found a treasure trove of works of art, canvasses painted from her heart. The art world was astonished by her talent, to capture the ocean's movement and balance, in life she looked at her art with shame, in death her art brought fortune and fame. Our harshest critics undermine the talent that we should let shine, and you know, as well as I, wherein our harshest critics lie.