I’ve lived off bright crayons:
wildfire reds, impossible to contain
sun-warm yellows,
blues so deep they ache.
The art only stirs others
after it’s torn through me
violently, beautifully.
But when one rolls
off the edge of the table,
everything fades
to useless grey.
It hits like withdrawal-jittery, cold, unrelenting.
I jump from my seat and dive under,
palms scraping floor,
heart clawing for colour.
My body riots. My mind splits. I need them.
Nothing else will do.
Without them,
I don’t even want to try.
Why bother painting
if it doesn’t bleed?
When I can’t find them,
I lash out,
I accuse:
"You took them!"
You must have.
Or maybe a stranger
has a stash I can borrow.
They always do.
Until they don’t.
Until I’m hollowed out again,
brush in hand,
nothing left to spill.
And still
in the grey,
faint and almost apologetic
there are pastels.
Quiet. Soft.
Colour, too.
But I’m not ready.
Not yet.
There are still masterpieces
I want to make.
The kind that burn,
the kind that cost.
I chase the thrill, knowing the crash will come.
Doesn’t matter.
Taking that away
would feel like death.
Still,
when the screaming stops,
and no one’s watching,
emptiness echoes-
a hollow left
where brightness used to be.
It’s in that suffocating silence
I realize I need something else
to carry me through.
And that’s when
I notice them-
the pastels.
A hesitant lilac.
A patient green.
A blue that doesn’t bruise,
just lingers.
They don’t demand,
don’t pull me apart.
They don’t need to be chased.
They wait.
At first, I think
they’re boring.
Too soft.
Too quiet.
No edge. No risk.
Forgettable.
But then
a soft blend appears,
a shade I’ve never seen
on the chaos-soaked canvases
I used to swear by.
They don’t set fire to the page,
but they stay.
Longer than red ever did.
Longer than any high.
It terrifies me,
this gentle palette
not because it’s dull,
but because
it might be
the only way through.
Even the grey I've been dismissing isn't emptiness-it's the canvas itself.
The foundation that makes every other colour possible.
Without it, even the brightest neons would have nowhere to live.
I dip the brush.
Not because I’m sure.
Not because I don’t miss
the flame,
the thrill,
the ache.
But because peace
is not the absence of colour.
It’s the steady hand
that learns
to paint without bleeding.
And I am tired
of turning masterpieces
into wounds.