The canvas crooned softly, “come, there is something I must show you”. I could not ignore it, beautifully cast as it was in the morning light shining from my bedroom window. Heartstrings tugged my limbs as if I were a marionette, a puppet to the master that was the pale square before me. While the grain crosshatched just so minute shadows rendered the plane a shade darker from across the room, I could see it was far purer now that I was close enough to feel the coolness of its surface. I heard its whispers once more; it was understandable why Van Gogh might take drastic measures to escape their captivating pull, yet only after years of reveling in the act of obeying them. Perhaps my brush was entranced as well, as my hand rose unbidden to offer color to the canvas, gaining in return an earth-shattering joy that resonated through my bones and turned my skin to gooseflesh. For this was the joy of being an artist; this was the divine honor of giving life to a canvas.