Painting

She studied the canvas, her head tilted and eyes intent. She saw the possibilities- the picture- before any paint had even touched the canvas. Her hands reached for brushes she knew by touch alone. The tubes of paint were like old friends in her hand. Each tube could create anything she wanted. The paint could be coaxed into worlds and images and pictures at her will.
She held the brush over the canvas. With a swipe of paint she began.
The painting developed under her care. She hummed as she worked, happy that progress was being made. But when she struck a problem, nothing could be heard but the clatter of brushes against the wooden table. She stared at the canvas. She moved around it, looked at it from different angles. With a trembling hand she painstakingly added intricate details. A scrap of cloth removed unwanted paint.
The painter smiled. She lifted the canvas from the easel and held it in her hands. So much work had gone into the painting. She was tired, mentally, but inexpressible joy filled her. To be able to capture her emotions, her dreams, and her thoughts on canvas was breathtaking. She sighed and set the painting down again.
Her eyes shifted to the next empty, white canvas. An idea, a painting, was already forming in her mind.