A Rose (or, Random Story Without Any Sense Whatsoever, I)

The artist stared blankly at his canvas. Two months it was, since he was last inspired. Brush stroke after brush stroke had been erased, and his cut finger did not help. How silly it was, he had cut himself on a rose. A rose? It can't be, not a rose. Two months, and no inspiration, save a rose which cut his finger. Instantly, he mixed his oils, readied the canvas, contemplated roses of many colors, and began to paint. A rose, it has to be the most beautiful of all. A rose, with its indescribable red petals. Ah, but that's not good enough. It cut me again, didn't it? It didn't let me get it just right. Throw it out, start over. Mix oils, ready the canvas. How to breathe life to a mental picture when the image he sees is perfect? Ten more tries, but something was missing. Then he remembered. The most beautiful rose also carries the sharpest thorns. He tried five more times, and at last he stopped. He knew then that he had tried to describe the indescribable. The sixteen roses he painted were all around him. To anyone else, he had failed. But to him, he has sixteen roses, all beautiful, which would remind him of that perfect rose.