To the painter of the sky

If there was a creature who actually created this world and life, I’d love to meet him for I have an ample of things to query upon…

If there was an artist who actually painted the sky, each day, each hour, each second I’d ask him, with my sparkling eyes, how long it him to make a sky ready, like that. And, where he gets the color bottles from that he has access to the paints for eternal?

Also, I’d ask him, how vast the sky is, if he ever completes a painting in a day?

I’d tell him that I envy him for he blends the colors so well, and how does he flawlessly hide the mistaken brushstrokes behind those clouds dancing animately? And how his fresh paints never color the birds that touch the sky?

I’d ask him what puts him into work, what inspires him to paint? Are those humans that make that happen? Living or dead? How many stories of the dead has he painted so far?

I’d ask him if it was his howls from frustration that we hear when the sky falls apart? Is that why the oceans are so blue? Because they carry the scattered parts of you? And the bluest sky?

I’ve heard people saying, if he exists , he’s been lucky for he has a creativity like that, making him present the finest of his arts everyday, all of their own kind… Or, artist – is that your failed attempts? Of tracing your previous works?

If I’d met him, I’d ask him if he ever gets dissatisfied with his own capabilities, and if it ever troubles him- having a canvas ahead to fill, every now and then?

There’s, probably, so much to ask to him but if I had only one question amswered, I’d ask him how many years of hardword, isolation, mockery, consistency and patience it required him to master an art like that?