She was an artist, and she loved nothing more than choosing brushes and mixing up colours. She’d made it a habit on lovely evenings to challenge herself on expressing emotions through colourful lines on empty canvases.
Every stoke, something she wanted to say. And so she picked up a fine brush, and closed her eyes as she passed her fingers between its soft hair. She inhaled deeply to allow her feelings to trace through her body, held her breath for a moment, and when she released it, she was ready to start.
She painted a violet sky like the one that was right outside her window; an immense, mighty sky, without clouds or different colours, its usual blue nowhere to be seen, the darkness of the night sky aeons away. She desired less stillness and more life, and so she painted a round of robins that forgot their loneliness and flapped their wings across the sky, starting their journey to warmer lands.
She had no one to watch out for her and so she painted a silver moon, pregnant with secrets and truths she whispered only when she was alone.
And as she had nothing to fear, and nothing more to long for, she painted an ocean so blue and so vast that had her staring in awe, and into which all her regrets drowned. Her apologies bubbled to the surface, and echoed across the oceans, like a song that danced to its own rhythm, its notes as sweet as a siren’s call.
Then she stopped and watched her tears diluting the colours on her palette, and cried more for all the days that had gone, and the ones that would never come. For dreams palliated in time, faint and almost forgotten.
But she was an artist and she loved nothing more than choosing brushes and mixing up colours, so she painted through yet another lonely evening.