‘Twas after his exhausted paint brush bid farewell to its final caress upon the torrid canvas, that he stood amazed at the power that took over him and guided him through his work. Unaware of time at its languid and grueling pace, the hours seemed like seconds in its fervency. His masterpiece was now completed.
His heavy eyelids begged him let them fall, and for the last two days his stomach was an empty vessel crying for its nourishment, but as his passion had engulfed him, his work became his master and he became its slave. As his colors converged with each other, and the sensual lines made love to his spirit, he could feel the wings of beauty taking him to the Kingdom of Heaven and opening the gates for him.
She with her golden lips, smiled and commended him for letting passion work its way through him. While his spirit was still floating in open spaces, he heard voices speaking through the crimson clouds.
“As long as you are in control of passion, that sometimes sacred but sometimes destructive force, you and your prudence can let your passion rule. When it finds itself in the hands of evil, it becomes a weapon. When it becomes an animal in the spirit, it covets everything the heart leads it to. When it finds an incompetent sailor, it steers his ship to an uncharted port.
As long as your soul rests with the Holy Spirit, let it exalt you to the height of passion, that it may guide your paint brush and present your work to the glory of God. Passion ruling alone is too fragile to be misappropriated. Use it with caution.”
Then as the voice grew faint, all he heard was the wind singing through the trees. Beauty had climbed back into the skies and nestled its anointed self into the bosom of the Almighty.