the heart rate slows, oxygen and blood slower around the body. there’s calm and calm precedes the onset of boredom. the mind is next to slow, lack of stimuli whirling down to a whittled spiral.
and the artist sits at her easel, brushes in hand and a row of paint tubes lined up before her. the palette sits looped over her thumb and a dozen time she goes for a tube, places it back before ever opening it. there’s nothing to think today, nothing to do because her hands and brain aren’t talking to each other.
(or maybe they are, but the conversation is stilted, broken, and she’s already had five changes of scenery so can’t complain about the scenery being dull)
she’s bored of her work, she decides. tucks away the brushes, seals up the paint tubes for another day, and pours another coffee.