They lied. They all lied. They said I would get over it; I didn't. My world is a bleak, barren wasteland of melancholy and despair. This has been my life, ever since...it happened. Painting helps, it shields me from this harsh world we are kept slave to. People - when they dare to approach - often ask me “where are your paintings? Your canvases? Your sketches?” They are clueless. They all are. I am my own canvas.
Colours fly off my only paintbrush like they were meant to be part of me. I use all the colours: Brazier-red, autumn-orange, honeycomb-yellow. Whether they be warm, or cold, they are all exquisite to me. My patterns are vibrant and fluorescent, or dull and depressing. Yet beautiful either way. The musty smell of paint is comforting. It revives memories of blissful times. Oh, what I would do to be back then. When I was free.
When I paint myself I feel as if I'm a whole new person. The smooth strokes of my brush on bare skin is satisfying and comforting.
Colours are my soul, my heart, my barrier from humanity. I am and am not,a living piece of art: I am because of my physical appearance, I am not because of my emotional. Every piece of art has a purpose; I don't have a purpose, unless it is to bring sorrow and meaningless to the world.
My depression is killing me. It is a demon, a curse. Clawing and scratching at me until I am consumed from the inside. I can't get rid of it. It stalks me wherever I go. Unseen, but very much felt. I am trapped like an ant in a droplet of water. I once told myself that I would be ok, that was the first lie I ever told. Painting and colours are the only things that keep me sane - barely.
My colours are my disguise. Inside, I am already dead. But I must hide it. I have to hide it. However, I can't keep pretending forever. If only I could wake up from this nightmare…
Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if I had kept going; fighting my way through the battle of life. If only it had happened to someone else. If only. I am gone now. I will never see the radiant glow from the sun again. All that remains of me is a single paint splodge outside my window.
Author Notes: If any of you are wondering, yes, she does commit suicide. Please tell me what to improve or if you liked it! All comments are appreciated! :)