Paintbox

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I can’t paint. I really, really can’t.

But when I shut my eyes, I always see a screen of black. It starts like that, just soft black, like fabric. Then it bleeds into red; or rather, red bleeds onto the black until there’s nothing but red. And then there’s purple. There’s always a lot of purple. There are yellows, greens, and dark blue (the blue’s always dark, I don;t know why), but I remember the purple most clearly, because when I open my eyes, streaks of purple hover for a second, before dissipating into… well, whatever’s I’m looking at.

So I guess, the colours of my mind and mood would begin from purple.

There’s a tone of red to my thoughts, though. No, it’s not anger. It’s a lot of maroon and pink, but from time to time, my feelings have a strong tone of crimson to them. I think they do now, although it’s fading, like more water’s been mixed in. It’s love. Or rather, romance. I’ve fallen in love perhaps thrice, so usually it’s just a lot of pink. Shifting emotions. Crushes. Sometimes nothing at all in that range. And sometimes a deep, deep crimson that colours everything else and makes my world look like hell.

Anger isn’t red. It isn’t even like a burn. It’s usually ice-blue paint on a canvas, cold, but it’s edged with orange. There’s a layer of black on it. I keep it under wraps, because I don’t like my anger. It’s cold and ugly and hurtful. Sometimes it pushes the black aside, and leaps up, the orange edges scalding the first person it touches, and then freezing everything else. The freezing hurts worse. I don’t like anything cold but fridge-water and ice cream. I don’t like being angry, because my anger colours my mind an ugly blue-orange combination that blots out everything else and leaves my world cold, hurt and unhappy.

Smiles are white. Not because of teeth. They’re not yellow, because smiles are like sunlight and everyone knows that sunlight is white light. Sunlight does good things. It makes things grow- pink and red and green and golden and yellow and happy and laugh-  and it makes things sweat, and thinga are alive and well and breathing because of the sun. I like smiling. I don’t like my teeth, or my skin, or my hair, but  I like my smile. It makes me feel happy, and white and nice and warm and brown. Smiles and laughter are white and brown and a little bit of everything. Every mood, every colour, every shade of the paints mixed and mingled in my mind.

And my hands are stained, and I look at the page, and I sigh, because I really can’t paint.

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