Worlds of paint

How long has it been? Long enough for the paint to layer my skin. Long enough for the sun to be hitting the curtains, peaking through and blinding me if I tilt my head too far one way.

The soft constant beat isn't constant nor soft. The music fills my head and I went to turn it up only to remember the paint is still covering me. I move without thinking back, back to my work, back to my world. I look at the colours and shapes and try to focus on the world these shapes come from. I look at the colours and shapes and move back to my pallet, no hesitation or fault in my movement. I move with ease I have never been able to find anywhere else. Moving back to my pallet without hesitation I continue to work, not truly thinking. I move with chaos in my veins and for a second I lose myself. Was it a second? I don't know, nor do I think I care.

The smell of paint is suffocating in the best of ways. It drowns me but I cannot complain, I know I should open a window, or stop but I don't. Music is throbbing through me, spreading through my nerves and I let go, drifting off slowly while i work. I don't need to think for this, not really. The worlds and colours in my head pound at the walls. They scream to be released and to follow with the words I write. And who am I to deny them a release.

More paint, more colour, more ideas and so many more worlds fill my head, pouring out of me with a never ending storm of colour and emotions. There is never an end to it. Only an end to my will to continue.

The music ends, silence deafening, dragging me back. It rips me from my safety and throws me into the world, but I do not stumble as I land. Putting the brush on the table, stepping back and I let a soft breath go, as if I were whispering a secret. 1 step after another I turn around and walk out, knowing that my world would wait for me. It always does.