I wish to paint like I used to. I wish to swim in the sea of paint which somehow represents my emotions. The emotions were too dark at time and the colours too bright is that why I stopped? I seem to ask myself in the solitude while I sit with brush in my trembling hand. The only thing that I somehow choose to remember from my black past.. the colours.. the paint that somehow never left my fingers. The stains of paints were the only colours left in my soul till one day it turned all blank. When I imagine I see nothing but darkness.
I still somehow contemplate the moment I would pick up the brush yet again and start the master piece that would live on forever. The only thing that adulthood actually took away from me was this hobby, I would dare to say, but was it a hobby? I laugh at the choice of my words here. It was my life in little bottle. But one day I dropped it all and never had the courage to fill it again, thinking that the happiness I get from it might not be able to fulfil my heart. The greed got the best of me and yet it took me back to the point where it all started.
Someday I will gather the courage to drop the little bits on a blank sheet of my soul and maybe just maybe it might find it’s true colour that would stay for longer than I choose.