Bedtime Stories

My eyes are tired. From looking. Deeply. Into. Everything. Sleep, you might say. Close your eyes and dream, but then I'm still looking. Shall I describe the colors? Blue, black, embedded stars in the sky, white light. I hold tight to the ledge to keep from falling down and wake with clenched fists around the wooden handles of my brushes. It shouldn't be this hard, but sometimes it is. Sometimes it stretches so wide it breaks into ribbons of taffy that is too sweet and sticks to the roof of my mouth. So much to remember, color, line, form, warm, cold, proportion... I have doubts...

Then, today, with the fickle sun shining through the colored panes, I too entered the age of enlightenment (at least for the moment), realizing that it is not with eyes that one sees, but the heart. Just the facts, ma'am. Let the facts lie, as they do. I prefer the mythology of my own reality. Cream no sugar, thanks.