Daily Prompt: Paint

Let the word “paint” be my madelaine and tea, a flood of memories coming towards me, waves of emotions carried by five little letters. Paint, that’s the smell of my new room in the old, creaking house my parents bought when I was seven years old. Pink, each wall a different shade, a sliding door between my parents bedroom and mine.

Paint, that’s the distinction between line and space. “Some artists see lines, some see space, and you, my Dear, are definitely a space girl. So, stop drawing and paint. Paint!”

Paint, that’s dirty – no, crusty – fingers in art class, nobody needs a brush, just splash on paper, another ruined pair of jeans – not again, those bloody acrylics! Smearing liquid plastic on a canvas, higher than me, so I had to climb up a chair – my first 600 Dollars in exchange for a piece of me, and the question “Could I make a living doing this?”

Paint, that’s moving out of my first own flat where so many things happened, leaving blank walls for new memories; and that little red-brownish spot on the wall that the paintbrush didn’t reach, the one that happened, when you wanted to throw a cherry into my mouth but you missed. Without money, you even paint with cherry juice.

Paint, that’s colour and shape, passion and frustration, pain and fun. Paint is painting. And painting is life.

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