Blank. My defences were low and my emotions were running free, willing to create the most beautiful thing one would ever see. I started with the colours, not the shapes. Black and white to keep the basics, a very pale pink to give it some life, and the most beautiful bright blue in the world to make it deeply soulful. Once I had chosen the colours, I needed to choose the right brushes; and that’s what I did — I carefully chose each and every one of them. I opened the window and looked at the clouds; they were ready to witness what I was about to start. It took me a while to finally have the courage to start filling the white canvas with the colours, I won’t lie. It was the blue — yes, that blue — that gave me the push I needed. The brush in one hand, a hot cup of coffee in the other; I was unstoppable. “Why not?”, I asked myself, while visualizing in my head what I desperately wanted to become true.
Black. The movement was soft, tender. I could feel my heart beating as I stroked the white canvas with my modified brush — I felt powerful. “It can’t be that hard”, I thought. With the black I created the shapes; I created the most remarkable assets for mundane eyes. It was irregular, unique; it was special. Black, black, black. I took a sip of coffee; it was getting warm — not too hot, not yet too cold –, it was the perfect temperature. Black and white were finally blended; my creation had started to make some progress.
Pink. Just a little, not too much. A pale pink to illustrate the blood; flushed. Emotions, words, confessions, and silence; they all had the same colour. Pink, pink, pink. I left the coffee aside. The stains on my dress won’t let me lie; It was already a piece of art.
Blue. At this point I was a beast; running freely in the woods. I was myself, I wasn’t hiding; I was completely carefree. Happiness lies through details of life; that’s why I finished my painting with the blue. It’s deep, it’s hard, — it’s you. Blue, blue, blue. I couldn’t find my coffee. I closed my eyes and let it flow; the deeper I went, the further you go. Time was something completely obsolete, a stranger in my life. My painting was perfect, flawless. For one brief moment I was an artist, nothing could have stopped me; I had created a work of art.
Blurred. My excitement lead me astray. Pink and black, white and blue; all the colours got mixed up — a storm had started. At first I could only feel the droplets; they were silently invading my house and touching my painting with hostility. Blurred, blurred, blurred. I should have closed the window. Looking around, I saw my cup of coffee; something was telling me I might have left it aside for too long.
Blank. The storm had destroyed my painting; I could feel my heart pounding — I have lost it all. I knew I wouldn’t be able to recreate such beauty, not even if I tried a thousand times. Blank, blank, blank. I had a dream and it had vanished; I knew how beautiful it could have been, and that’s what hurts the most. I close my eyes and I can still see the blue — your blue –, what a daunting feeling.
My hands are cold, and so is my coffee; the excitement has gone away.