I look up at the sky and maybe come out of myself a little bit.

I am dumbfounded. Not that I’ve said anything in days. But this is different. Now, I can’t speak. There is no choice in the matter.

Words run about my head at lightning’s pace.

Streaks across the sky.

There are streaks, gray lines, smearing down the sky. They look like mascara tracks.

Or a kid’s finger-painting.

I reach out and trace the tracks with my fingers.

What if I could paint the sky? What if it was my responsibility to create the clouds? What if it was by my hand that the sun spewed pink at dawn? What if dusk’s damask was mine?

What if I could make the rain fall, and wash everything clean?

Suddenly, I’m jumping. Moving faster than I have in days. My uninspired stupor is over.

I pick up a canvas, set it on my easel, tie my hair back, and fish around for a brush.

With my palette covered in blues, white, yellows and grays, I attempt to play god.

I splatter sky across the canvas.