my fingertips ache to touch that pretty white canvas, to cover it in swirling colours of every imaginable shade. i could have been an artist, no longer i fear. yet how tempting that idea now sounds in this room i am in.
behind me is an empty area, high ceilings and clean empty walls. spotlights at the top and the ground a cemented grey of uneven monochromes. i’ve never been one for studio apartments but this one, an office of a friend has my heart. i imagine those walls strewn in black and white potraits of strangers i have never known and easles and paint brushes litter that smooth grey floor.
i miss that feeling of being covered in paint, when one goes into that fever of being able to create, you fall into a state of trance; oblivious to reality’s pull over one’s silent eyes.
to be able to create such dream like illusions; how i wish for it to be so simple.
one day.
one day, i will create something new,
and then i will lie back in content and let out a sigh; and i know i will be blissful,
blissfull for that short period in time, knowing i have created a spectacle so beautiful in my eyes.
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