In every painting

The canvas becomes a stage. I move around the surface with a withering manuscript and some notes that I never read.
I know this play, Ive been on this stage many times. An improvised performance without audience. 

Here I am all my passed ages. The Old with his firm aestetichs yet full of doubt. The child free and naive . We play until the curtain fall. Tools becomes still and silent. Only the old man’s question remains, hanging in the air like an epilouge: Did it come to life?