Warning: following is the most abstract, vague, non-committed post I have ever written. Do not expect to understand. Do not expect anything to mean what it looks like it means. If you can decipher any of it, congratulations—you know me better than I thought you did. If you do not understand it, don’t feel bad. After all, everyone must have their secrets.
Colors, sometimes bright and intense, sometimes fading into a state of near non-existence spread across the canvas of time, adding pigment to mere thought. When the brush first made a mark, it struck perplexingly. The artist should have known, should have had some concept of the finished painting, should never have made such a wayward stroke. But it seemed the brush had moved of its own accord, irresponsibly marring the image. The first mark was careless, but easily remedied, easily painted over.
The artist painted twice, three times, a forth. Each time on the same canvas. Each layer of paint concealing the previous. And when he was finished, discovered to his alarm that the painting he had hidden was more beautiful than the one that remained uncovered. The painting is framed now, hanging inconspicuously out of the way. To those that find it through effort or by mistake, it is as it appears, simple, a child’s effort made valuable only by the cost of the frame. To the artist, it is a secret, concealed for all eternity. He cares nothing for the visible product, despises it in fact. But he sees the truth. For behind the clear sky lie vibrant colors of abstract design. Between the hills now covered with trees, is a daring image he never intended for human eyes. In the depths of a still lake is the remnant of that first brush stroke. And in every other crevice are the pictures that never left the artist’s thoughts. He sees them. They are as real in his mind’s eye as if they had actually met the canvas. But alas the artist’s skill prevented them their moment.
If only. If only the artist had not doubted his work. If only he had not cared what others thought. If only the others knew what to look for. If only…but the if onlys are endless. So, as the boundaries of reality and fantasy meet and overlap, the only thought that remains is: if only the artist now had the heart to destroy the painting. And the title of the painting is as unrevealing as the painting itself: June uncovering secrets through invisible noticing.