"A thanks to all my tears
Who were always there in my darkest times when I was alone."
This book is not about my pathetic pitied self. Perhaps that's all they'll ever see me as, perhaps they'll always assume that I was the victim. Perhaps this will...
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My fingers were creating an illusion.
My hands were working like they had never worked before, making me high.
I felt like I had never felt before.
I was creating an illusion, I was painting something that could never exist. I was painting blue and green. I was painting happiness.
And painting that I remembered why I didn't let anyone in.
Cause when you let people in you get happy.
And then that happiness gets taken away.
I was painting a date with Reece that had never happened, that was never going to happen. Yet I was still adding the pink and red.
The deception was too good to be declined.
I never loved Reece Dawson. And I won't ever love him either.
My strokes got harsher as those words crossed my mind and I tried to calm myself. But I was angry and I was crying and I couldn't see anything properly and it was probably affecting my painting.
A day ago I had everything.
I had fame, I had my skills, I had a boyfriend, I had happiness.
And now all I had was anger. The fame seemed to had faded into the background. It didn't matter to me anymore. It was the reason Reece had started talking to me. And it was partially the reason we had broken up.
I wanted to sing my heart out, but I had glued my lips shut. I couldn't muster. And if I started singing angrily I would mess up my painting.
My sweet beautiful illusion.
I was painting white then. Those who would look deep enough would see the lies in the painting. They would see all it hid. They would see it all. But no one looked deep enough. I knew that. I could paint with impunity.
I painted the girl's face with a huge grin. She was on a date with her boyfriend, and she was laughing at something he'd just said. She was comfortable around him but you'd still be able to see a little blush on her cheeks.
She looked adorable.
She was very pretty. Prettier than perhaps I would ever be able to be.
Sometimes I wished I was as pretty and beautiful as my paintings. But all we shared was the depth. And no one cared about the depth.
I had my palette in my head with the colors glistening. They looked like they were smiling. They looked like they were happy. They looked like they were mocking me. I just couldn't tell why.
That was the last happy painting I drew for months.
In a few days my art den evolved from a cheerful place to a sad one. All my happy paintings were taken off and tucked away somewhere.
