"Just like the butterfly, I too will awaken in my own time."
The painting was a mirror image, a perfect reflection. The colors, the shadows, the minor imperfections due to years of deterioration, were all present, carefully detailed, and impeccably duplicated. It was almost as if the farm house itself had somehow soaked right into the canvas. The young boy watched in awe as the paintbrush danced. It struck the canvas not out of anger, but with the delicate touch of a loved one. It's caress was soft and gentle, like a sweet summer breeze stroking a single blade of grass. With his legs folded neatly, the young spectator remained silent, quietly sitting and observing each and every brushstroke with a curious fascination only akin to a child. The art was not new to him, of course. There were plenty of pictures in his house, hanging; all of them meticulously placed on the walls with careful consideration. He had just never seen anything like this before. It was the creation of something brand new right before his eyes, and it was an inspiring thing to bear witness to. The man never made a sound, and his movements were always subtle; A flick of his wrist here, a flick of his wrist there - nothing more. The level of concentration, of patience it took made his young body, normally full of such rambunctious energy, slow down and relax. Taking a moment to breathe deep, the boy was suddenly aware of things around him, things of which were typically considered ordinary, yet now seemed so much more grand. The way the wind felt against his face when his hair lightly brushed across his cheek. The songbird's sweet melody, as it hopped along the tree branch, whistling joyous tunes, further contributing to the peaceful afternoon they were experiencing. The day was flawless. When the bell rang, his heart practically jumped out of his chest, his ears ringing from the sound of the constant chime. Both he and the man painting turned to see what the ruckus was about. The boy's mom stood on the front porch, and was now hollering for him to come home; his lunch had been prepared and was now waiting, getting cold. Sinking like a stone, the illusion of a perfect day had been destroyed. The quiet man could see this sudden despair in the boy's eyes, and he too felt the moment had been shattered. Retrieving the nearly finished art project, he would extend it out, offering his work to his young admirer, hoping to brighten his spirits some. As if seeing the sun for the first time, the boy was now aglow with astonishment. The excitement swirling around inside of him could hardly be contained, as his smile stretched from ear to ear. With both hands, his small boyish fingers would reach out and carefully take the painting away. Holding it out at arm's length, as not to smudge the still wet paint, he would offer an appreciative head nod - which would also be respectfully returned - before heeding his mother's call to come home.
Packing up all of his equipment, he would clean the paint off his pallet, and securely store away all his brushes, before collapsing his easel, making it more accessible to carry. Heading over to a near by tree, he would rest a bit and just soak in the sights. Living underground was not an easy thing. This farmland was about as close as it came to experiencing nature above ground here in Wind Country, so Asagao would relish every minute of it's beauty. Fetching his Shakuhachi (flute) from his bag, he would unravel his mind and allow the tranquil harmony to carry him away.
WC: 600+
[Buzz, Buzz - Insect Contract, please]
