She paints, her fingers sticky, her nails filled with dried red colour; purple streaks embellishing black tendrils of her hair, her white shirt has a big green stain—she doesn't notice, she can't, after all she is p a i n t i n g

Music bleeds in her ears, colours pour through thick tubes, dark, light, or even white, flowing freely, tainting the blank canvas. Fascination sparkles in her eyes, sucking her bottom lip, she tips her head slightly, her fingers touching the cool paint, words slipping her lips softly— w o w

Brushes glide against the smooth yet rough canvas sheet, purple, blue, green emulsifying into a painting, her hands working a magic, her mind her own, her imagination breaking through the limits of imagination; creating something p o w e r f u l

Her shoulders move in the beat of the music, her head shaking slightly, the light highlighting the tips of yellow daffodils, a bucolic scenery being visible, as colours conflate t o g e t h e r

She doesn't notice the cat purring, or the milkman ringing the bell, or the new boy shifting next door; her eyes, her mind, her body devoted to it's making. The painting captures her thoughts, her admiration, her devotion; the yellow lights dancing across the little houses—a smile tainting her lips as she finishes it.

—she doesn't know yet, she doesn't know, what painting means to her. It makes her forget her dirty past, her ugly scars; it makes her smile. She loves the feel of cool paint, she loves what a single dot can represent, she loves it all. She thinks it's just a hobby, but for those who know, it's her lifeline. It's the only thing that keeps her sane.