Hitherto it was a sketch in the making. Rapid strokes executed with nothing on mind. Those strokes intended for nothing, just a free rein for an eager mind. Bold black strokes rambled on in an unnerved motion on a still white canvas. Sometimes leading, sometimes lead on. Every day I learned something new. The unskilled fingers moved over and about the canvas, propelled by their existence. Unmindful of what was to become of it. On and on and on the paint brush moved and I never realised what it was fast becoming. I was busy naysaying perhaps.
As the sketch nears its fortification I stop and step back to see what's become of the canvas..and I smile. Stare hard enough and I can read faint sweeps to make out what the canvas now betrays. The colourless strokes have now a story etched in contours. Why does it surprise me still? And why do I blush? I ask myself in vain but it's a self rolling wheel. So free-spirited that neither time nor my eye can capture its motion in entirety.
Black. And White.
