With hurried strokes, she stained the paper before her a deep ultramarine. Just as the paint began to sink into the paper, she added whisps of white, rough yet somewhat undulating against the blue background. She stood back and looked at her barely finished "work of art" ( she wondered if it even deserved such a title) and found that it reminded her of a microcosm of all things calm. The sea, the froth of gentle waves diving into the water, the morning mist, the sky, the clouds...
Someone fascinated with the subtleties in life would detest this particular painting of hers, as it had none to notice. But she couldn't care less. As long as it remained the way it was, half-empty so that she could leave the rest of the painting to her imagination. Today, she filled the empty space with fecund land, flowers emerging from it as blooming bursts of colours and warmth. She imagined herself swinging her arms with frivolity in the multicoloured meadow. Her lips spread into a small smile as she opened her eyes. She turned around and left the room, looking at the painting just before it disappeared behind the closing door, anticipating what would be in store the day after.
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