Ars Longa, Vita Brevis (Life is Short, Art is Long)

My lungs demand less of me than the canvas does.

It calls when I sleep. Even in dreams, the unfinished work waits.

She is coming.

I see her in every museum, in the shadows of every gallery, and I escape to the studio. 

Brushstroke by brushstroke, I keep the darkness away. Life is short.

Eyes watch. Strangers speak. Their words become noise against the silence of the canvas.

I give my body to work. My mind. My sleep. Everything my heart can surrender.

She waits.

I cannot afford to.

Roses wither. But not here.

Here, they bloom beyond me.

My body will end.

The painting does not have to.

Art is long.