Best Kind of Broken

53 Pixie

I stare at the tube of red paint as the storm outside rages on. There’s something inside me, something untamed and fearless, that wants nothing more than to run out into the night and feel the storm on my skin, the rain in my hair, the thunder in my bones.

Which is exactly why this is perfect painting weather.

I haven’t painted with colors since last summer. For no reason other than I just wasn’t feeling… colorful. But these past few days, something has been growing inside me. Coming to life. Waking up with demands. And I couldn’t ignore it any longer.

So I dusted off the many unopened boxes in my room and tore through them until I found my colored paints. Then I threw on some Florence + the Machine at full volume, and now here I am, standing before this blank canvas with no idea what I want to paint.

I look down at the tube again.

Red. It’s such a statement. Passionate. Unavoidable.

I turn the bottle over and squeeze a drop onto my palette. There it is. Red.

Now I just need to dip my brush in it and—oh, what the hell.

I turn my hand over and squirt a handful of paint into my palm and smear it against the canvas. It looks harsh and unwelcome against the smooth white. Like a blemish. The corner of my mouth turns up as I squirt more red into my hands and start to spread the crimson every which direction until the canvas is no longer a blank square, but a collection of red movement.

Once the red is emptied, I grab a blue bottle and fill my hands with the color of peace and calm, wiping it alongside the red.

Then green. Life. Beginning. Healing.

Then yellow. Happiness.

Purple. Hope.

Colors fill my eyes until I can’t imagine anything without them. My heart is on fire, like it’s been frozen for so long and has just now started melting into this blaze of… God, life.

I pull colors through my hands as lightning flashes and thunder booms. It’s madness outside, madness inside. And it’s beautiful.

And then I hear Levi’s TV turn on.