Colour me Rainbow
Rainbow just for me
I am Rory. Watch me paint.
I want to do another one. Bigger. Better.
I looked at the canvas. This time, I was painting because I wanted to paint...not because I wanted to release the feelings I felt boiling inside me. This was different. This was somehting new to me. Interesting.
The canvas had a suspicious yellow tint to it. The blank cloth looked...wrong, like it wasn't supposed to be there. I picked up my paintbrush and stepped forward.
Nothing flowed from my pained mind to the to the patient brittles of my paintbrush. I was frustrated. I wanted something bigger...better...interesting. Yet I couldn't paint. I cannot call myself an artist.
I fell to the cold flat surface of the wooden stool and let out an exasperated sigh. I lifted the strands of hair obscuring my view of the room from my face.
The walls...they're...boring
The walls were plain and simple, untouched from the day I moved in. The depressing grey of the cement was, just like the canvas...wrong.
The walls. I'm going to paint them.
A smile formed at the corners of my mouth. It hadn't disappeared ten minutes later as I scanned the the empty room, the flapping dusty white sheets on the little furniture I had and my previous paintings carefully arranged one in front of the other in a small corner.
I began.
I did what I did before. Blindfold. The darkness which engulfed my sight disturbed me as I shuffled aorund the room with arms stretched out before me.
I found the paint cans.
I threw them. I heard the clatter and the clash of the tin paintcans and continued. Again. And again. And again.
The ceiling
It was quite low, I presumed. I clutched a fresh can of paint. Bending down, I flung the paint upwards and heard the loud, reassuring splat. I did this again. And again. And again.
I only had one can left.
I stood in the center of the room and grasped the can. I held it out before me. And I started spinning. Round and round and round. With every new spin, I heard the splat with every new turn I heard the squish under my feet. The smile returned, broader.
I removed the blindfold.
Bigger...Better...Interesting...Definitely
I was happy, ecstatic. I brought my legs to my chest and wrapped my arms around them in the exact spot where I had used that last drop of colour from the last amazing paintcan and admired my work. I watched the greens swim into the reds and yellows. The silvers dance through the blacks and blues. The purples tiptoe across the browns and oranges.
I live in a rainbow.
That was the first piece of artwork someone was willling to photograph and the first I was unwilling to accept.
I want to do another one. Bigger. Better.
I looked at the canvas. This time, I was painting because I wanted to paint...not because I wanted to release the feelings I felt boiling inside me. This was different. This was somehting new to me. Interesting.
The canvas had a suspicious yellow tint to it. The blank cloth looked...wrong, like it wasn't supposed to be there. I picked up my paintbrush and stepped forward.
Nothing flowed from my pained mind to the to the patient brittles of my paintbrush. I was frustrated. I wanted something bigger...better...interesting. Yet I couldn't paint. I cannot call myself an artist.
I fell to the cold flat surface of the wooden stool and let out an exasperated sigh. I lifted the strands of hair obscuring my view of the room from my face.
The walls...they're...boring
The walls were plain and simple, untouched from the day I moved in. The depressing grey of the cement was, just like the canvas...wrong.
The walls. I'm going to paint them.
A smile formed at the corners of my mouth. It hadn't disappeared ten minutes later as I scanned the the empty room, the flapping dusty white sheets on the little furniture I had and my previous paintings carefully arranged one in front of the other in a small corner.
I began.
I did what I did before. Blindfold. The darkness which engulfed my sight disturbed me as I shuffled aorund the room with arms stretched out before me.
I found the paint cans.
I threw them. I heard the clatter and the clash of the tin paintcans and continued. Again. And again. And again.
The ceiling
It was quite low, I presumed. I clutched a fresh can of paint. Bending down, I flung the paint upwards and heard the loud, reassuring splat. I did this again. And again. And again.
I only had one can left.
I stood in the center of the room and grasped the can. I held it out before me. And I started spinning. Round and round and round. With every new spin, I heard the splat with every new turn I heard the squish under my feet. The smile returned, broader.
I removed the blindfold.
Bigger...Better...Interesting...Definitely
I was happy, ecstatic. I brought my legs to my chest and wrapped my arms around them in the exact spot where I had used that last drop of colour from the last amazing paintcan and admired my work. I watched the greens swim into the reds and yellows. The silvers dance through the blacks and blues. The purples tiptoe across the browns and oranges.
I live in a rainbow.
That was the first piece of artwork someone was willling to photograph and the first I was unwilling to accept.
♠ ♠ ♠
Hey!I updated! I KNOW!
haha!
yeah...kinda weird tooooooo.....wtv =[
Thanks for reading!
Rose...Rory =]
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