I want to paint the colors.
I want to feel the smooth,
the brush,
the whispering silky glide of bristles on the textured paper,
the slick of the oils and the wet of the watercolors.
To wipe away a smear,
feel the coolness of the medium on my fingertips.
To be able to close my eyes
and still feel the richness and,
when I open them again,
to see the clear, dark line of greatest beauty.
I want to mix the colors,
create the rose-gold of a sunset
and the crystal blue of the Mediterranean
with a practiced eye and precise hand.
I want to blend the colors with a smudge of my thumb,
flick them up with the finest of brushes,
and apply them with perfect control
on the canvas that waits with bated breath.
I want to pour heart and soul into a masterpiece
so that those who observe turn away
with a catch in their throat.
Swirls and strokes,
a half-remembered afternoon
when my muse was the shimmering wing of a butterfly
and my inspiration the drowning golden light.
Because I believe that if I can capture
the merest hint of suggestion with my brush,
and possess the skill to transcribe the true meaning of a scene,
a scent, a glance, a breath,
or a moment as ethereal as a spider's web
with color and a stroke of genius,
I will finally be able to give my soul a voice
and the freedom of expression.
It will be able to escape the confines
of the prison it beats itself so hard against –
my hollow breast.
Its every fancy, every whim,
its rushing to the highest of heights
and its crashing again to the darkest of depths,
will be set free in a flurry of color,
for myself alone to understand
and sigh in relief.
The gravest of weights and the merriest of fancies alike
are born on the canvas,
where their intricacies may be laid plain for all to see
and yet still remain the most unfathomable of mysteries.
Pain, sorrow, love, joy; all could find expression at my fingertips.
I want to paint the colors.