The room feels quiet. The beautiful female muse, well-dressed, sits on a couch, posed, looking out into the distance. An older man sits, gently painting the blank canvas. The muse remains stiff, yet her eyes wander. She observes the clean white room. The lights feel harsh, creating a drastic shadow on her. She can feel the heat stab her exposed skin. She turns her head to see the old artist. He wears a dirtied apron, covered in paint. The man's eyes are sharply focused on the canvas, occasionally glancing back at her, translating her form into brushstrokes. The artist's beard is well-groomed, white as the sky. The muse looks off into the distance again. "Tell me, how long have you been doing this?" The muse asks, still unmoved. The artist continues spreading colored paint on the canvas, slightly grinning. "For over 40 years, love," his voice deep and raspy. Her eyes light up, looking back at the old man. "40 years? I'm sure you know what you're doing." The artist glances up to make eye contact, chuckling. "I try to." He glances back down at the canvas. "You try to? That doesn't sound confident." The brush slides across the canvas. The old man's eyes glow. "That's the beauty, miss. I still don't know what I'm doing." The muse's eyebrows raise, confused. She peeks at the artist again, filled with curiosity. "How so?" He glances up, making direct eye contact. He smiles, "No one will ever master their art unless they master themself." She looks away, still trying to make sense of it. Yet, she still feels unanswered. "How do you master yourself then?" The artist sets his brush down gently, his body relaxed. He slumps on the chair, focused on her. "You don't." The wisdom still confuses the muse, leaving her even more intrigued. "Then why do this?" He chuckles, feeling nostalgic. "You remind me of my granddaughter. No matter the countless times I try to explain, she just won't get it." He looks at the harsh light beaming down on her, sighing. "I do this because I love it. This is my way of expressing myself. It doesn't matter how long I've been doing this. Every time I stare at the blank canvas, I see the countless possibilities I can begin. I could paint you over and over again, and each time it'll be different." He glances at the confused muse, grinning. "You don’t master yourself. You grow, you learn, you change. But there's no final answer to who you are. You won't ever understand yourself, not even at the end of the road." She straightens slightly. Her lips part, not with confusion this time, but with understanding. She smiles, "I think I get it now." The artist laughs weakly. "Now you sound like my daughter."