She didn't know how to feel.
My heart is racing.
My heart is breaking.
As the paint brush swept across the paper, she smiled a bit. The complication of life had always given her adventure. It had taken her all over the world, around and back. But now she wanted to either spread her wings again and fly, or to have an anchor.
I want to be free!
And she wanted to never feel trapped, but she wanted to have someone want her to stay. She wanted to have someone fly away with her, or miss her while she went. Not an anchor. Anchor is the wrong word. She wanted a port for her ever moving ship. She wanted a place to come back to, a place that she belonged.
But the argument continued inside her head. She didn't want to owe anyone anything, didn't want to be weighed down. And yet her heart whispered like a the aspen trees nearby soughing with the wind. Quiet, but insistent.
A dark blotch of red paint smudged onto her hand. She sponged it away on a paper towel, marveling at how the physical act of painting always seemed to directly reflect her feelings on life. The heart appearing on the paper may have been banal, but it was bleeding onto her, sucking away the confusion and the thoughts. Slowly she pulled her hand away and stared at what she had created.
Is this how I actually feel?
And she knew what she wanted.
My heart is racing.
My heart is breaking.
As the paint brush swept across the paper, she smiled a bit. The complication of life had always given her adventure. It had taken her all over the world, around and back. But now she wanted to either spread her wings again and fly, or to have an anchor.
I want to be free!
And she wanted to never feel trapped, but she wanted to have someone want her to stay. She wanted to have someone fly away with her, or miss her while she went. Not an anchor. Anchor is the wrong word. She wanted a port for her ever moving ship. She wanted a place to come back to, a place that she belonged.
But the argument continued inside her head. She didn't want to owe anyone anything, didn't want to be weighed down. And yet her heart whispered like a the aspen trees nearby soughing with the wind. Quiet, but insistent.
A dark blotch of red paint smudged onto her hand. She sponged it away on a paper towel, marveling at how the physical act of painting always seemed to directly reflect her feelings on life. The heart appearing on the paper may have been banal, but it was bleeding onto her, sucking away the confusion and the thoughts. Slowly she pulled her hand away and stared at what she had created.
Is this how I actually feel?
And she knew what she wanted.
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