It was half past five and the dusk had already started to envelope the windy streets of Paris. The Sun was receding with million shades of orange. It was a street, famous for paintings and painters. I, being shamelessly bad at painting and arts, was walking feet to feet with other tourists, by the iconic Eiffel Tower, around which, I saw, people were taking selfies with couple of red balloons in their hands.

In a span of noticing the crowd around, my eyes stopped blinking for a moment, when I saw her for the first time. She was an artist. Guessed to be in her early 20s, she was a blonde lady, wearing a white smock and a pair of hazelnut eyes. I went towards her and asked her, "How, in this world, can you make such a beautiful paintings as these are ?" Managing to tuck her hair strands behind her right ear with the wooden end of the paint brush, she replied… "The paintings I draw are nothing but the replica of God's creation. The only difference you can find in them is the difference between my vision and His', and that difference, in my dictionary, is called 'Life'. I give life to still objects. "

Stunned by her answer, I replied with a gentle smile, "Love thy art, love thy creation." I wanted to talk a little more but abstained. I kept a penny on the table and went on. Treading a little further I looked back and saw as she, with her oil-paint-stained hands, holding a penny, was looking at me and smiling, a paint brush being clenched between her molars.

The horizon of the setting Sun was visible behind her silhouetted smiling face, felt as if she was the only creator of this beautiful scene. Turning towards the direction of my longer shadow, I started to proceed with a mind, full of hazy thoughs.