"Painter" is such a common word.

Anyone can observe and choose their subject. Anyone can buy paint and mix it into the colors of the earth; the changing leaves in mid September, the blue green of the Aegean Sea, the blending hues of a sunset, red, purple, and yellow combining into a maze of color, the browns and greens of a never ending forest, and the soft blue and purple tinted clouds in the endless sky. Anyone can combine them into a scene that fits the standard for beauty.

But it takes something special to become more than a mere "painter", to turn a mere painting into a work of art. A true work of art forces us to face our most human emotions, from happiness to despair, envy to greed, love to lust. It forces us to come to terms with what we are doing with our lives.

The one who creates such a work is no longer a "painter".

He is an artist.

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Sorry about me posting something so late. Fans of Thief, I have the next part written, don't worry. I just need to type it up.

This just came to me out of the blue while I was riding in the car from the way home somewhere, so I wrote them down. I'm sorry if it seems random or not grammatically correct; I was just writing what was on my mind.