Painting Brush

The pencil swiveled, twisted, and turned, letters left behind after every gentle stroke. Where there had been a blank dull space had now been transformed into a space where gray markings had been left behind. Each time the pencil grazes the thin and brittle paper something new appears like a magic trick. Everything is silent and still; just a pencil, paper, and the guiding tool- my hand. Everything is still and serene, just a simple breeze emerging from the swiftness of my hand as it is moved left to right and up and down. Everything is okay.