Painting

The paint feels different today.  Gritty, and tired, the smooth blue worn down to pools of resistance.  It is unsettling.  The paintbrush once drank its fill of pthalo blue with ease.  Now it laps it up desperately like an old mop.  And, still, with the grittiness at every stroke.  I wonder if it's my skin that's different?  Am I the one who's been worn down?  No, of course not.  Never.  It is the paint, it is the paintbrush, it is the water, it is the day, it is many things.  I cope with it, I continue to paint, and I relish the taste of exotic chocolate in my breath.