If I could paint the day it would be muted green and mostly gray. There are long strands of the year where your mind is a haze and nothing worthwhile comes about. But little by little, the strokes add up and formulate a composition that evokes great self-fulfillment. Each stroke, meaningless as stand alones. Every one of them necessary for the painting in progress.
Every day matters. The loud and silent. The eventful and unmoving. If nothing comes to mind, in your work or just in life, rest assured that the weeks and the brush strokes amount to a beautiful piece.
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