Acts of love

It didn’t start that way … more a case of acts of frustration and irritation at myself for apathy, lethargy, lack of motivation, procrastination and prevailing sadness, or something I can’t quite define.
Anyway, it’s been lurking and loitering for a fair while, rolling around and in and out, like a haar, a sea fret of futility and ennui.
A prevailing feeling of the sucking force of entropy on a global and personal scale.
Anyway, I finally managed to get myself moving and finally managed to get this unfinished painting, that my husband did, protected with a coat of outdoor varnish because it’s on the garden gate and has been quietly fading as a result of my negligence.
At first I was glad to have just managed to get round to doing something, anything, then as I worked on it I realised my brush strokes followed those of the paintwork, each stroke done by his hand. Suddenly it became a deeply intimate moment of connection and impossible separation, and the void between the two, with the minefield of space debris to negotiate between them.