The vieled canvas

Here I am, seated before a blank canvas. Anxiety crawls all over me. I close my eyes and inhale as deeply and as long as I can. I see it—the anticipation in their eyes. They are unaware of my lack of intent in making this a lustrous or glossy piece.

All alone in this dark room, with no recollection of the reason behind my fear for the canvas, the blank canvas remains still—ever white, ever blank.

The screams in my head begin to fade, day after day, from echoes to deafening silence as loud as can be. All the candles within me are finally burnt out; I have no desire to paint on this canvas.

I avert my gaze from my trembling hands, finally taking in all I can see—all that surrounds me. I understand now the reason behind my unwillingness.

I can't paint this canvas; it isn't blank. There's a painting on it, though it looks veiled, lost, and lonely. It exists and can't be painted over.

I can't paint this canvas, for I am but a veiled painting on it.