-Mother

[Words to Image. This little random image creating this little, short spontaneous story for my benefit and hopefully yours]

Hank lived by his vision. He allowed his 3rd eye to see things in a different manner than how most people did. A blank canvas was never blank, to him. It was a foundation to a priceless masterpiece, waiting, begging him to breathe life into it. It was a starting point with possibilities that were limitless. If his eye could envision it, then he could make sure others could see it. Every tiny brush stroke gave it existence. He was a creator of such. But who was creating who? His visions gave him as much life as he gave to the canvas. It painted his mindset, his character, how he utilized his time, his love, his entire world. It gave him a safe place to live in. It gave him peace.

Others began to notice his patterns, this old man who spent a lot of time down in the basement. When curiosity won over, they began to venture down to inquire of him. Most were amazed by his artwork. They were captivated by the beauty of what they saw.

Soon afterwards, they began to periodically purchase blank canvases and leave them for him. They knew he was a man of meager means and felt the pull to contribute to his passion. When they were confident his latest creation had been fully completed, they would remove it from the easel, lean it up against the wall, and replace it with their new gift to him.

Whilst the gesture was generous, indeed, and it did give him the means to continue chasing his love, many times the previous paintings ended up facing the cold hard blocks that made up the wall. Images were hidden from appreciation, almost discarded. No one ever realized what they had done, always hopeful of viewing his next works. In time, the wall became the new home to all of his previous masterpieces. Some visible, most forgotten.

One day, the sun disappeared for weeks. The temperatures plummeted and many froze to death. Hank remembered one of his paintings and searched for it. He understood the power of what he created, when no one else did. He positioned it back upon the easel and utilized its life-giving force to weather the cold. When the local crops had been damaged by hail and pestilence, he remembered another masterpiece. With a quick switch out, Hank fed and was sustained. Every challenge and every catastrophe was overcome by one of his painted visions. No one understood the power of what he saw, what he created, and how it could save you. All they really saw was the old man in the basement who could paint pretty good.

Hank understood the magic of his gift. He lived by the vision of what he saw and what it spoke to him. Even when others did not. He was a creator of such, and it was his own creations that saved him.

[Strangely enough, I decided to title this one 'Mother.' If you give this some deep thought, I hope you might understand why I did]