I want to paint love

She sat quietly in a dark corner of her room. She liked corners. She liked to sit in the dark. Her room smelled like paint, as always. Paints on her old, cheap table, along with brushes, dirty tissues, and dirty old clothes covered almost entirely with brushes of colors. An empty canvas was staring blankly at her from the opposite corner, as if reminding her to think. She didn't have to be reminded, her dreams were her obsessions - she could never forget them. She could forget anything, just not them. 1

"I want to paint love" - she thought with a small stretch of dissapointment on her lips. If she only knew what her heart meant by that. She searched so many times through the Net, reading love stories, love quotes, love poems. Trying hard to find inspiration. It simply all wasn't it; it was other people's ways of capturing love, just not hers. For a whole last week she was obsessed, switching off her phone; shutting the door in her best friend’s, only friend’s face. The one who long found his inspiration for music, and always sat downstairs playing to the streets, trees, people and rain. But she didn’t care about anything, as long as that canvas stared blankly at her – she couldn’t care. 2

She couldn’t understand what had she done wrong. She worked hard through the years earlier, working on her technique, her coloring, her lighting, preparing her self for that one painting that she dreamt of so many times, each time forgetting what she saw in her dreams. She, somehow, always focusing on the preparation earlier and now ready, realized she had nothing to paint. "Is this really it?" she spoke to her self, "Is there no way to do this?" She felt stupid. She felt helpless. She knew she couldn't give up. But life seemed to give her no choice. 3

She carefully put the canvas by the farthest wall of her little room and stared at it. It looked so empty she wanted to cry. She had so many pictures in her head that they all seemed wrong. She fell heavily onto her bed, and moaned quietly, angrily. After much self pity and self torture, she fell asleep, frustrated and exhausted. 4

She woke up suddenly, sitting up straight on her bed. Her hair was messed up, her face tired and sleepy... but her eyes mysteriously alive. She got up lightly and walked to her window, looked at a figure sitting downstairs, listening to the sad tunes running off the strings of the figure’s guitar, watching hands so familiar and easily guessing the expression in the eyes of that tiny figure... she smiled a weird smile. Noticing herself in her mirror she stared back at her reflection. "So?" - She asked in frustration, "What are you staring at? Its not a big deal." The reflection stared at her again, as if giving some kind of silent reply. She made a face at it, hit the lights on and walked over to the canvas. 5

Two days later the painting was completely finished. 6

She stared at it one last time, put on her shoes, checked her mirror for support, took the canvas under her arm and walked out the door, downstairs to the man she knew her entire life, the one always waiting for her, the one whose face she had painted on the empty canvas, marking at the bottom " Loved forever ".
Art is the best way of self exploration, perhaps it is the best.