Benjamin Postlewait
For the Summer
Sometimes we exist in shades of gray. We wander in place on dank cobblestone streets. Colorless charcoal sketches bound by the walls we've erected in our shadow-riddled minds.
And along comes a muse who startles us to life. Splashing us awake with buckets of paint like pails of water to our face. Monotone becomes vibrant. Shadow becomes sunlit. Winter becomes Summer.
She is an epiphany.
For the Summer
Sometimes we exist in shades of gray. We wander in place on dank cobblestone streets. Colorless charcoal sketches bound by the walls we've erected in our shadow-riddled minds.
And along comes a muse who startles us to life. Splashing us awake with buckets of paint like pails of water to our face. Monotone becomes vibrant. Shadow becomes sunlit. Winter becomes Summer.
She is an epiphany.