The Painting in the Stairwell

Everyday when I work, I trudge up the library stairs. They head up halfway to a small landing before turning back upon themselves and reaching their destination.

Everyday I stand on this landing and pause for a moment before a painting that was probably hung there after someone donated it. It is a painting of two cowboys sitting on horses in a clearing framed by woods. It is autumn, and the carmelized gold of the trees plays well against the blue backdrop of the sky. There is enough detail present to serve as a testament to the artist's skill, but enough is left out to let the mind fill in the details and cause the whole thing to shimmer and shift with possibility.

It is magnificent.

Everyday I tell myself that if I could paint that well, I'd drop out of law school and spend the rest of my days with a paint brush in my hands. It's grandeur mocks everything I work toward- the memorization of statutes, the arranging of books, the incessant preparation for exams- and it shines a path down a road I don't have the courage to explore.

I hate it and love it, all at the same time.

It brings my soul-stuff close to the surface of my flesh and sends the primal shudder through me that signifies that life is raw, and for a moment, close.

And everyday I break away and head back up to the third floor, banishing the dangerous thoughts of creative freedom until another day.