Every morning, he sat by the lake, his easel planted in the damp grass. It was his ritual, his quest. At dawn, the lake always seemed different, and he was captivated by its mystery.
One day, it wore the deep blue of a stormy sky. The next, it reflected the vivid green of moss and foliage. Sometimes, at dusk, its waters burned with a blood-red glow, and before the rain, it turned a heavy silver, laden with silence and gravity.
Each color enchanted him, yet unsettled him. He painted, erased, and began again. No painting ever seemed good enough. Weeks passed, but he persisted. The more he painted, the more elusive the lake became. One day, moved by his obsession, the lake spoke to him: “Why do you keep starting over?”
He paused, his eyes lost in the shifting reflections.
“You’re lying! Every day, you’re different! How can I capture something that never stops changing?”
That morning, the lake was a pale, almost translucent blue.
“It’s not me who changes,” the lake murmured. “It’s you. I am the reflection of who you are. Today, I am calm because you are calm. Tomorrow, I may be darker or brighter. I’m not in the pigments of your paintings, but in the silence between your thoughts.”
That day, he set down his brushes, leaving the painting unfinished. He sat by the water, and for the first time, he stopped trying to capture it.