I want to try something a little different. I’ve used my surrounding, clothes and my personal experiences to tell stories but I’m going to start sharing stories that come from myself…

Chapter One: Pulse

I have been sitting here for a while. The wall in front of me moves ever so slightly. I see little dots everywhere and they are buzzing. The painting that sits in the center of this wall however is still. But there are colours radiating off it. I see blue and purple. I wonder if I see these abnormalities on this wall because I have been staring for so long. For a moment I feel as if I am of a different species because I see the movement of the wall. But then I blink and it all vanishes. I am left with just a painting on a blank white wall.

I then glance down the hallway of this art gallery and see the many other paintings that hang silently. Each one abstract and simple. But each one also very different. They have personalities. I travel to the end of the hall to look at this collection of paintings. I scan them all swiftly and I stop once again at the painting that seemed to capture me before. It is the same painting that I was staring at. The background of this painting is solid and thin white lines pollute it. I should be focusing on those white lines but all I see is the deep blackness of the background. I can’t stop looking at it. I feel as though I am falling into it.

Again the white wall pulses. I am staring so hard at this one painting that I feel like I am paralized. How can the infinite blackness of the canvas cultivate my attention instead of the busyness of the white lines? It is strange, but I compare myself to the background. The urgency of the white lines reminds me of everything; streets, restaurants, school, my family, my friends. They never stop moving, where as all I want to do is stand still. The blue and purple bleed from the painting’s borders once again and I want to live in this moment forever. My eyes plead with me for hydration and I give in. The throbbing of the wall disappears and again I stand before this painting hanging proudly.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it.” said the curator of the gallery.

I am startled out of my own head by the words of someone else. It takes me a moment to gather my numerous thoughts into words. I respond, “I actually don’t like it very much to be completely honest with you.”

“Really? I wouldn’t have guessed that. You’ve been standing here staring at it for about 30 minutes,” he answers.

“Well, I suppose you guessed wrong.” I head for the door humiliated. I must have looked like a lunatic standing there for so long. I always have trouble snapping back to reality whenever I focus on something. It is a blessing and a curse.

“Wait,” he catches up to me just as I am about to leave, “Why don’t you like it?”

“Why are you asking?” I demand. I don’t fully trust this man.

“I just don’t understand how someone can stare at a painting for so long and not like it. That’s all” He says.

I take a breath. Why am I so hesitant to tell him? I am usually fine talking to people. It is this place. It’s the walls, the art, him. It all makes me nervous. I don’t know why. But I make an impulsive decision and say, “It makes me feel vulnerable. I am reminded of myself when I look at it. I don’t know why.”

“That’s interesting. Do you paint?” He asks.

“No. I’ve never tried.” I say, once again feeling like I’ve shown too much of myself.

“You should try. You might be surprised.” He states.

I give him a nod and walk out. The spring air lifts my spirit immediately. I walk down the street analyzing what just happened. Could he see something about me that revealed I could paint? That seems so peculiar to me. I’ve tried guitar, singing, acting and even film making in the past but never drawing or painting.

I suddenly feel as though a black cloud covers me and I want to stand still again. What if I can’t paint? What if that man wasn’t reading something about me but simply suggesting a new hobby? What if I was adding magic that wasn’t there?

As I’m walking I come across a musician playing on the streets. He is a young man. We make eye contact briefly and in his eyes I see hope and excitement. I need to try painting. I owe it to myself not to give up before I even attempt to do it. I turn on my heels and start in the opposite direction toward an art store a few blocks away.

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