A Prose With No Direction

mixed acrylics

Today, Hugh's allowing me to paint.

"It's been a while since I've painted," I say to him as he sets up our canvases. 

It's been a while since I've wanted to learn art.

"To be honest, I'm a bit scared," I admit.

We sit on big lawn chairs at the backyard of my house, our canvases and chairs facing towards the direction of the tree and the setting sky above. It's a beautiful day to paint the sky, is what Hugh told me just a while ago before he ran to his house to grab our canvases. The whole painting session thing was just a whim that came from Hugh's spontaneous mind.

And so was my idea of learning how to paint.

"There's nothing to worry about," he assures me, fixing the table between our two chairs and canvases with cups of water and paint. He hands me my own palette and brush. "You don't get to mess up in art. If you do, then you can just call it 'happy, little accidents.' Just like what Bob Ross says."

Accidents.

We don't have accidents in writing.

We have mistakes and errors. 

"So, do I just paint the sky?" I ask him, watching his slender fingers squeeze vivid, muted, bold, and calm colors onto his palette. 

"You don't have to," he replies, looking up at me. "You just paint whatever appeals to you. To me, I want to paint the sky since its colors are appealing today. But just paint whatever catches your attention."

I nod. "Okay." 

I look around my backyard, viewing my surroundings to see what catches my eye. Nothing but grass, a huge tree, and a fence inhabit the yard in the back of my house. There's a bit of flowers here and there, but it's mostly weeds and grass on the ground. Nothing interesting surrounds us, nothing interesting enough that will drive my will to paint. 

"Hugh, I don't think I find anything interesting—" Is what I say before I turn to look at him. The boy whose eyes reflect the grandness of the ocean stays focused on the canvas ahead of him, his attention, mind, energy, and entire being living in a separate world from mine. 

Ocean Eyes' presence right now is a kind of presence that's completely foreign to me. His state, which is a state of complete focus yet also indulged in complete relaxation, radiates a certain aura to me that can't be described in words. To me, the feeling he radiates is like the feeling I have when completely lost and indulged in writing a chapter to my book or writing on a piece of looseleaf about whatever thought that just pops into my mind. 

It's like that. His expression, posture, and overall appearance is like that state of happiness and safety, away in his own little world where no sounds, no sights, and no feelings can snap him out of it. 

His very being right now intrigues me. More than the pretty nature that surrounds us.

I think I've found a reason to paint.

I shift my chair a little as well as my white, blank canvas. I glance down at the paints on the table, a painter's collection of bold and quiet acrylic colors. The colors remind me of the colors that make us.

Some complimenting while others contradicting.

But the colors also remind me of the different shades that each color has.

Just like the many shades that love owns.

Grabbing the pencil first before squeezing the colors onto my palette, I sketch the Ocean Eyes before me, the Hugh that is lost in the world of an imaginative, calm, and focused artist. After sketching his body, the chair, the table beside him, and the canvas in front of him, I begin to squeeze paint onto my palette.