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The studio is a dark place, much like the corners of a mind. I pull the canvas back like cobwebs and fill the ideas with the colour of my life.My clothes are splashed with paint, and my pockets are empty.Outside my window birds are wings carrying the sky.I am life, and I am eternal. Through art, I live.There are many dead things in books. Art is not one of those things. Art lives on every page, and finds new life in interpretation. Renoir's "Gust Of Wind" has blown through a thousand minds, and Toulouse Lautrec has corrupted the sensibilities of many an innocent.As artists, we live every day for as long as there is someone else to live after us. We carry time, and time cannot forget us.Today I was walking along the road outside my house. The road is long and winds around in a dirty brown scar, surrounding the houses like a ribbon. The road travels in two directions at once, just by being. As I followed the road, the houses disappered and nature took over: the houses were replaced by trees; the people by birds; and the sounds of cars by silence. A moment later I was at the river.A river is nature's road. Unlike a road, a river can travel only in one direction. I sat down by the river and watched the brushtrokes of nature, reflecting and changing with the passing time.Thoughts and ideas are the essence of the river, and it is our job as artists to stay true to our paths, to travel in only one direction - towards a larger consciousness. Towards the consciousness of eternity. The collective of those who have not yet been, and those who will be.I let the water cool my hand for a moment, then rose and walked back to the studio.