The Abstract Wonder We Call Art

The empty canvas 
screams with anticipation. 
It let's out greedy breaths,
begging for its white surface to be embraced with 
creation. 
A blank page is nothing, 
and yet, 
it's everything. 
An infinite amount of possibilities 
lie just beneath the grainy surface. 
It could be anything, 
but at the same time, 
it could be nothing at all. 
And the unfathomable paradox echoes the thin line 
that humanity itself
walks upon. 
Art is not simply a means to make the hours of mundane living 
go by a little faster,
but rather,
it's an inferno 
fueled by the passion and wonder of awestruck souls
who caress their existence with curious fingers. 
Art is an expression of the entire being,
conveying the messages that are too strong,
or weak,
to be spoken aloud.
It's the spinning maze that casts us into a 
blissful oblivion. 
One where time is not a commodity 
One where there is nowhere to be,
and nothing to do. 
One where days are spent doing 
nothing other than
chasing Cheshires. 
Art is the telling of a million stories,
the lullabies that mothers sing to their infants 
when sleep is 
just out of reach,
the tender embrace of young lovers,
and the farewells of ancient bones. 
It's the kisses between space and time that are so deep the stars get 
jealous. 
And it's the fire that can be extinguished only after 
desolation is replaced with 
beauty. 
Art can be nothing, 
but instead it chooses to be everything.