The Life Of My Colors

Painting is like magic inside of me. I can feel how the colors are created in my head, how they run through my veins in my body. The colors mix with each other within my body and then they take new shades with a new light. They are living their own life. Sometimes the color are twisting inside of me for month and sometimes they find their final form within seconds. Once the colors are ready they start to shout for freedom, they want to get out of my body. I can feel how they start to move towards my right arm, how they are searching for the fingers on my hand. When the colors have found my fingertips they stop for a while. They force my body to pick up the first brush that I can find and then the colors burst out. They are screaming when they leave my fingertips, find their way to the brush and finally create a perfect image of my mind on the white canvas in front of me.

 

I just watch and think. Is it really I who is painting this or are the color just using my body to be born to this world. Is it my mind that creates the image or is it the image that uses my mind as a place to be stored until the colors are ready. I lift up the brush and look at the people passing by. They must be thinking that I am an artist trying to create a good painting, but I do not feel like a normal artist. I'm a slave. A slave to the colors that live their own life within me. The colors are my master and they are commanding my body to obey. I feel so helpless when the colors start to come out of me. They are telling me how to move my hand and I obey. The colors come out on the canvas and they are forming a painting on the canvas. It is beautiful, but I hate it, because it is not my free will to paint. I want to throw away the brush, to hit my fist through the canvas, to get control of my own life, but the colors will not allow me.

 

The painting is ready and I drop the brush to the ground. I am completely exhausted but I can feel that the colors will now let my body rest for a while. I look at the painting. I do not like and I would like to throw it away. My thoughts about destroying the painting makes the colors to move faster within and I know that the colors would punish me hard for destroying their work. I have to keep the painting so that the colors will be happy.

 

I stand up while it is time to walk back home. I try not to think about colors and paintings but I know that tomorrow the colors will take over my body again. They will force me to once again become what others call an artist.