The paint had chipped, not once, but many a times.
My skillful hands had, time and again, patched it; each time making sure I don’t make it look like a patch. It was hard work but I couldn’t care less. After all I considered myself a proud painter and my patch work must not look patchy, I insisted.
21st November it was today. I took my palette, mixed the crimson and blood red to, yet again, match that perfect shade.
The bristles soaked the paint and were eager to do their job. My hands: steady as usual. And as I sat to fill it, I stopped. This time it was without the horror. Another patch was on the verge of eruption. Yet, I stepped back. And smiled.
Everything ages, I realized. How gracefully… is our choice. I could, forever, fill the patches but would it retain the original emotions then? May be, no! But won’t people remark upon the bald spot? Yes, I guess.
I walked to my dressing table and emptied my dye mixture into the sink. Finally…I was ready to age.