and i stared at the wall,

blank and bare,

like my mind,

my life,

no colour to distract,

no story to tell,

just empty,

and quiet,

i looked to the ground,

saw the buckets of paint,

i grinned,


“let’s begin…”


When She Paints…


Once upon a time…because nice stories always start that way…there lived a girl who loved to paint.She felt alive with brush in hand and canvas bare and ready. With her hand she would stroke the canvass, waiting for it to speak to her as only it could. “Tell me what you are” she would whisper and wait for whisper to come back. Only she could hear it’s tale and only she could paint it. When she painted it was like magic.

Before her was her paint. Colours so vibrant and bright, they would shine on the canvas like multicoloured stars in a twinkling sky. She dipped her brush in the deep red, feeling the whisper, as much as hearing it. A long stroke across the white and the story had begun. Her hands danced with her arms in a waltz as beautiful the girl herself. She sang as she covered the canvas, a song as sweet as honey straight from the comb.

Greens married blues which married reds…the story becoming more than told, it became real in her hands. If one could see love it would be those reds. If one could touch sky, it would be those blues. If one could feel envy, one would feel it for that green, being so close to the other colours.

The story became one of oceans, green blue, a colour that seemed to move like a real ocean created by the girl. The sky was a blue that seemed to go on forever and in looking one would think they saw birds flying within it. There, on the ocean, she placed a red boat, and if you looked from the corner of your eye, that boat bobbed on those waves of paint.

With a delicate hand she used the finest of her brushes and on that boat she painted a small man in a yellow raincoat. She looked at her creation, smiling at the scene. She looked so deep into it that she almost willed it real. She could hear the birds, smell the tides, hear the creak of that boat. With brush in hand she dabbed it in grey and on the horizon painted dark clouds. They seem to coil and churn like an evil creature covering such a beautiful scene.

“Turn around,” she whispered to the boat and the man.

“A storm is coming,” she said to the paint.

Tears filled her eyes, asshe watched the grey approach. She shook her head and screamed at the canvas with all of her heart.

“Turn around Daddy…turn around!”

As in anything in life, we wish for things to change. The girl wished her Daddy hadn’t gone to sea. She wished he had not stayed out to weather the storm. She wished that someone, anyone had told him to turn around, for then he would not be gone.

She held on to the edge of the painting. She tightened her grip. She closed her eyes and imagined the sounds and smells. She did this and she wished again. This time she wished the only wish she could…as she picked up her finest brush and painted one more thing.

…and if we look again at the canvas, we would swear that we knew the other figure on that boat. We would swear that the boat was now moving back to that painted shore, even though it is impossible. We would wonder where the painter had gone, but in our minds we know. When she painted it was like magic…