the water is murky, black. the paintbrush is tainted with onyx paint. the dark colors swirl in an angry rage, running in circles around the paper, chasing each other until they reach no end but themselves. the colors blend in a messy state of misinterpretation. confusion plagues the page. mascara drips from her eyes like the paint from the brush, completing the masterpiece — it’s like her signature. the empty white spaces on the page seem so clean and pure, the antithesis of her work. she wants to smear the opaque hues into the sans colored areas, but she refuses. the crimson burns too much while the scarlet bleeds all over the page. the indigo drowns everything it touches. the emerald is fierce with envy, competing with the rest of the colors for the attention of its audience. the onyx, however, pulls the other colors into a deep abyss of nothingness, darkness. that white, though — well, that white leaves room for hope.

so she hopes.


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