The brush feels awkward between my fingers. I’d rather draw dark figures with a charcoal pencil. I’m trained to do that, and it feels effortless.
I see kids handle the brush deftly. Splashes of paint blossom into flowers. Onlookers in the cafe make me self-conscious. I don’t want to fail or look stupid.
The brush bristles along with the surge in my confidence.The long hand of the clock complete circles, and my canvas begins to convey something. A picture emerges unintended, from the folds of the subconscious.
This is how stories are written – to reflect a new reality.