The Painter Called It Art

There are a hundred million stars in the night sky.

Some big,

Some small,

Some millions of light-years away.

They all seem to blend together,

Tiny white strokes painted on a black canvas by some mysterious painter,

Using a minuscule, indiscreet brush.

This Painter painted a hundred million specks,

And called it art.

And We call it art.

Perhaps an uninspired work, 

Something Anyone could do, had they had the time,

And yet, however uninspired it may seem,

The canvas still appears as beautiful as beauty can be.

But can you really trust the Painter?

All the stars seem to blend together,

Placed unintentionally in random — but rigid — form,

Giving them the illusion of fluidity.

Of the hundred million stars in the night sky I can see perhaps a thousand.

I believe that a thousand bright stars are enough

To craft an image in my head of what is beyond my comprehension,

But just because I believe doesn’t mean it’s true.

I do not have the ability to see all hundred million stars, 

But I assume that they are there.

What else could I do but trust the Painter?

Why waste time wondering if it was all unintentional,

If the work was uninspired.

Why does reason matter when truth sprouts from happenstance, 

When coincidence paves the way to blind honesty?

When I look at the thousand stars that I can see,

I don’t think of the hundred million. 

There always seems to be one star that shines brighter than the rest.

It doesn’t stay in the same place — It changes location every time I look up at the night sky.

But I can always tell that it is there.

I can tell by its shape, and its light,

But most of all I can feel it in every way it is possible for me to Feel.

I feel it when I taste my favorite food,

When my friends bring out my deepest laugh.

It consumes me when I pick up my pen,

Or when I play my favorite song. 

Most of all, I feel it as a special warmth in my heart,

One I feel when I step out and look at the sky, 

Day or Night.

It doesn’t really matter if I can see you, I know you’re out there.

Maybe it is the same blind faith to trust the painter,

But I never question it when I feel your presence. 

So even though I see a thousand stars when I look at the night sky,

I find you every time. 

Chance and Coincidence led me to you, 

And whatever the Painter’s intention was,

A blemish becomes a blessing when looked upon with love.

Yes, the Painter tells us that there exists a hundred million stars in the night sky, 

And of the thousand,

Your star shines the brightest.

So maybe we should stop asking ourselves if we can trust the Painter,

And embrace the feeling of looking upon the stars.