Graphite. Eraser shavings. Coffee-tinted paper.

It all starts with a blank page and an ephiphany of creativity.

The pencil feels at home in my hand as it glides with precision.

The marks are the accumulation of my countless tries; fails and successes.

A quick flick of the wrist.

A deep pressed charcoal gray line.

Blurred edges from my hand.

Magenta red. Spilled ink. Small construction paper stars.

Each line slowly starts to join hands, a consistent line, a togetherness only possible by my imagination.

The lines become faces. The curve of an elbow. The point of a nose.

The sparkle and shine or eyes filled with stars.

With a final line I finish.

Cobalt blue. Speckled paint. The dab of tissue paper. 

My work is complete as I hold it to the light.

Flawless am I.


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