A man plays piano softly one morning, with each note he feels like he’s floating. It’s almost as if his fingers move without him knowing, making harmonies and blending pieces together. He plays and plays until his fingers feel like their going to fall off, but he doesn’t stop. The…
painting- a poem
My first love was a paintbrush and blue-colored paint. My younger self adored the sky, and because of that, I loved the color blue. The thing that keeps me going is my paintbrush and white paint. I always run out of white paint, my white paint disappears in a second, like it has legs and has run away. What I love is the way the brushes move on the canvas, making shapes, texture, and telling a story.