I want to paint and draw, but of course I’m not that adept at art. When I try — which I have, once in awhile — it all bleeds red like the scratched out depths of a heart. I don’t think it’s awful, in fact, a couple of pieces are still hanging around drying somewhere. However, I’ve realised that paint may not be my ideal canvas to cover.

… and yet, I want to paint and draw…

I want to take a paintbrush and pencil, then drench a sheet of paper in colour until it’s see-through like a stained glass window. I want to over-flood my emotions through a medium I can’t fully utilise to express myself, until my intensity swells and the bristles break apart. I want to wash my utensils in a jar, ajar from the closed window I imagine being opened. Instead, I am writing, and the kerosene is in the cupboard, and I have no idea where my paints are.

The text is black, and it’s highlighted by a white background. This is as far away from paint as I can get, and yet, every letter is wet. Every sentence, and each segment in metered time, and even those a little too artificially outstretched… is coloured purple. It’s not literal, so please don’t look for it, but now that I’ve mentioned it, you can’t possibly unsee it. You’re imagining each pixel, each individual whimsical mineral of my words, down to the absolute pinnacle of this verse, in purple.

Royal purple… I really want to paint with you…

Lately I’ve been seeing so much monotone monochrome, as if the world is alive and thriving in colour while I’m on my own. Yet, I can paint with my words; I’m smearing it everywhere. Purple: that’s the only colour I want you to think about right now.

… I wanted to paint and draw, please tell me you can see the images I intended, and the vision I extended via words full of purple…