Reflection of the Creator

He stealthily painted the skies, the clouds, the hills and trees and right when he was rinsing his paint brush at the pond, I caught him.

Red-handed.

Or rather Silver handed, as the color of the Sun was dripping from his paintbrush, leaving the pond in a shimmery silvery-grey hue almost like a portal into another world.

His shirt was Earth colored, his hair was a nest with twigs and dried leaves tangled amidst them, his eyes shone with passion from all the beauty around him that he had created, his feet was slick with mud, his hand was dripping silver and beneath his arms and on his back, his shirt had a wet patch of melted snow.

Before I could reach him, he dived into the waters, and vanished into the pool of silver-grey that he had created from his paint brush. I ran to the spot and waited for him to resurface, but as the minutes passed by, the ripples reduced, the surface of the water became clear and I stood there looking at the face staring back at me.

He was long gone into a world he had created with his paint brush. Leaving my reflection in his place. He was me. I was him. I just don’t see how, I just don’t see it yet.

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