The Painting

There was a little painting in my yard It was of me I had a colourful palate with a bunch of brushes I had no clue of how to mix colours of patterns that would mean anything a vision for shape and size of all things an aritist was born with there were just frames and canvases scattered everywhere I could see I mustered the strength to lift a brush and dip in some paint it seemed like an orange or blue one stroke after the other and I felt liberated from reality every minuscule of beauty seemed to bloom all in one flash of a second what would you call such an experience? streak of eccentricity? a dream? Reality woven neat and safe in an imagination. . . .