I lay awake at 3:07 in the morning
I groan and wonder should i sleep?
Can I sleep?
I want to paint that one image I have in my mind for days
But I can’t make myself to do so
The colours on my palette seem to annoy me, i can’t look at them
Yet I get up and reach for my brushes
They feel so fragile and satiny between my fingers
Like they might slip away just like my peace and resolve,
So I hold them tight.

I stare at the blank canvas with unblinking eyes
the crisp white acrylic paper looks unnerving.
It isn’t the darkness in my room weighing down on my shoulders but
the nothingness from the blank canvas that aggravates me.
My thoughts are blurring out,
Still I am able to make out indistinct letters in between the crease lines of the blank white paper.

Those letters seem to mock me
For being a let down,
for hating everything i am not supposed to,
for being unappreciative of the people that still hold on to me.
My head aches severely
Lord, how I wish I could cry!
But my tears probably have dried out.
I want to scream but all that falls from my lips is a faint sigh,
I wince at the sound of my own voice.

You see, anxiety is too chaotic, it fogs my senses
but I don’t let it loosen my grip on my brushes
I hold them, tight.
There might me creases on the paper but my strokes are as smooth as silk.
I can delineate my way through this nothingness into something graceful,
I just get lost sometimes,
Only to find myself back through fine strokes and elegant colours.
I can flawlessly blend the crease lines with my hues to make them appear almost non-existing,
I am skilled at it.
So, you see it gets blue around me sometimes yet i paint the canvas pink.