Deranged Artist

His brush stroked colors vibrantly across the canvas. This was a masterpiece.His days and amount of time put into it were like Michelangelo carving David. The colors we're mixed to perfection, the chemistry with which blue flowed into yellow to make the soft, yet piercing green. The way the canvas soaked up each and every explicit detail where the shapes stroked into it almost jumped out of the painting to play.The ideas that came to his head jumped around his head poking and prodding, when then they would launch themselves onto the canvas into perfect silhouette justice. His eyes gleamed as the picture lay in front of his eyes. It was all coming together as planned. Each and every line was in perfect symmetric alignment, each color was toned to its great glistening state. The curves flowed perfectly, like a beautiful goddess of love.There was no doubting it, this was one of the best works he had done. His hands had cramps and bruises from holding the paint brush and the constant mixing and stirring of what he needed. But the pain was well worth it. He knew the amount of love his mind and hand had put into it, it would shine in the presence of critical eyes. But something was missing. The painting lost its luster, as thoughts came to mind of it being incomplete. There was something more that was needed to solve this creative equation. He mixed a new color, and began to paint more. But the colors began to flow together differently and what his masterpiece was becoming a new shape. It's curves formed new circles and corners. Its lines became edgy and formed different shapes. Sweat poured from his brow, screaming in anxiety of what would become of such a painting. The effort and all the love put into it could all come crashing down in a second of one wrong stroke. The difference in the change of the picture tormented his mind. His flowing fluid strokes became bashes with splashes and patches leaving mass areas of unknown colors. Shapes became unknown laughing visages, mixed with evil smiles. His pallet of paint started to shake, as his mind boiled. Harder and faster he began to slash at the canvas with his brush like a furious barbarian. Colors meshed together, lines crossed and caused intersections filled with accidents, curves became forgotten as no shape could be predicted. Exhausted he stared at the painting. Panting out of breath, he realized his new turn bore the true appearance of a masterpiece. He quickly stood back and looked at the canvas. All his love, his anger, his pain staking hours, his craftsmanship, came together in one moment to form the greatest entities. It stood in front of him screaming to him, showing him the truth. It was pointing directly at him. He had watched such a beautiful thing turn into something he knew could be better. Something even deep seeking stares could not ignore as in the inevitable truth of a masterpiece. He knew this painting was finished. No more colors could describe and enhance it any further. In the middle of it amongst the mash of colors, stood a distinct figure. Its hands we're pointed at just the right angles, the proper alignment, the finesse of the arms in perfect harmony with to which they pointed. The circle enclosing it all in one invigorating curve forming a circle. There stood before him among the chaos of colors, a clock. All it would take is time. Time for his work to be known, time for understanding of his talent. The clock sang with its infinite non-existent numbers, ticking before him. His eyes shown, this was the ticket, the master piece. This was his favorite. "In time all will become clear, and all will be right as it should." From beauty to chaos. From chaos to completion and the one hope humanity has. Nothing but time.