Your prompt for this week is:
It was like a painting…
Write for at least 7 minutes. You’re welcome to share your piece in the comments if you’d like to.
Your prompt for this week is:
It was like a painting…
Write for at least 7 minutes. You’re welcome to share your piece in the comments if you’d like to.
It Was Like Painting a Picture
Not with my hands, but with something older. Something that existed before my first breath and before my mother’s tears ever touched her cheeks. A picture that began long before I arrived here, woven through bloodlines, prayers, heartbreaks, and promises made beneath stars I would never see.
I imagine God standing before an endless canvas.
A brush dipped in galaxies.
A stroke of pink for compassion.
A stroke of blue for wisdom.
Black for the nights I would question everything.
Gray for the moments between destruction and revelation, where nothing makes sense and yet everything is becoming.
No color was wasted.
Not even the dark ones.
Especially not the dark ones.
For years, I believed I was trapped inside the painting. A figure standing motionless while life happened around me. But lately, something has shifted.
Perhaps it is healing.
Perhaps it is Qi moving through places where fear once lived.
Perhaps it is the nervous system finally understanding that the war is over.
I don’t know.
I only know that some mornings I wake feeling as though I am hovering above my own life, watching generations unravel and reweave themselves through me.
My grandmother’s fears.
My father’s wounds.
The women before me who survived things they never spoke about.
The children who will come after me and never know the battles that were fought on their behalf.
I feel all of them.
And then I feel myself.
Standing at the edge of an unfinished canvas.
Brush in hand.
For the first time.
The cosmos whispers that creation is never finished.
The stars themselves are still expanding.
God is still creating.
The universe is still breathing.
Why should I be any different?
So I paint.
I paint futures I have not yet touched.
I paint homes filled with laughter.
I paint my children standing strong in a world that tried to teach them fear.
I paint abundance where scarcity once lived.
I paint women discovering their worth.
I paint families breaking curses that were handed down like unwanted heirlooms.
I paint forgiveness.
Not because everyone deserves it.
But because I deserve peace.
I paint love.
A deep velvet pink with ribbons of crimson flowing endlessly from a cup that never empties.
The kind of love that survives betrayal.
The kind that survives grief.
The kind that survives becoming.
And then I realize something beautiful.
Once a painting dries, it is sealed forever.
It cannot become another painting.
Not exactly.
A new canvas must be stretched.
New colors mixed.
New strokes applied.
The next masterpiece will carry echoes of the last, but it will never be identical.
Because no two brushstrokes are ever the same.
No two souls are ever the same.
No two journeys are ever the same.
And perhaps that has always been the answer.
Not perfection.
Not certainty.
Creation.
Again and again.
Until the final brushstroke returns to the hand that painted the stars.
It was like a painting,
the Apocalypse .
The white clouds, like ribs cracking open
pulling the ice- blue sky skin taut until it split on the peaks of bone,
revealing a clot-red moon bleeding bright like a fresh heart above,
haloed by the crown of the sun.
Silvery voices sang out, filling the air with their cacophony,
their voices vibrating in the marrow of trees and the group of mortals
clustered in the Whole Foods parking lot,
who were suspended by the finality of Life,
the instinct to fight
snuffed
by the magnitude of the End.