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For me there is nothing quite so comforting than the simple joy of painting. Mixing the swirl of colors on my palette. The heavy feel of the oil as it slides into the pigment. Each stroke of the palette knife brings unity to differing colors. They dance together in a stately waltz. A well balanced brush in hand. The feel of the paint filled brush on the canvas. Pulling, gliding, mixing. Nothing else is there. Just the paint. Just the color. The scent of linseed oil. The sharpness of turpentine. Just you and the moment of placing color. All else falls away. Stillness in motion. Motion frozen in time. A thought, a feeling, a fleeting moment stretched out eternally. Letting go of the mind, let the hand do what it does. No interference from the moment. You are not there. Only color. Only paint.