I, an art major

think only in pigments

oils and acrylics

beginning with tubes of bright hues

mixing them to a tint

by adding titanium white

watercolors originating

from filled tins of color

sable brushes dipped in water

to delicately diluted

to a pastel

wash.

Art

the unending pursuit

to capture

or create

a world of light and dark

a place reliant on all

shades and tinges.

White,

Black,

Brown,

Tan,

What is reflected in the mirror does not show what is inside,

There are many different colors,

And that is what makes us unique,

All are equal,

All are right,

All are wrong,

A fight does not mean,

The end of the world,

It is what makes us stronger,

It pushes us forward,

And yet it will be remembered,

Because if it isn't,

It could repeat,

Fighting over and over,

Isn't the answer,

All deserve respect,

Even if they haven't shown you respect yet,

Poor,

Rich,

Dead,

Alive,

We all can make a difference,

And share our story,

Just because you are right or wrong,

Is not what makes the difference in the end,

There are many different paths,

And many hardships that lead up to what we are today.

Pastel shades.

Spoons full of pigment, honey and gum arabic. Mixing it, searching for the play of light and colour. The piglet pink, mint green, summer morning sky blue, light violet. Mixing deep feelings with air and lightness, getting the shade that most people like. Maybe just another spoon full of pigment. Just a bit afraid to ruin the feeling. Slowly and reluctantly then fast and sharp the little dust flies into the mix.

Mixing it, little bubbles of pigment popping and joining the run. The glass muller sticking into the paint more and more until unable to lift himself anymore. In need of force, power to be free again. Slowly the beautiful pastel colour turns into a dark shady shade. One look and everyone can understand that this colour won't paint flowers and butterflies rather than deep corners, pain and sorrow.

It takes a minute to blend the pigments into watercolours. But when the colour reveals its real shade on paper, it surprises everyone. At first, it looks like the paint itself, but then it's this soft pastel tone, not at all like a violent, teeth-gritting tiger. A flower in this shade got coloured, but as the paint dried off, a tear drained from one of the petals. How could such beauty cry? It had everything...

Brilliant red

day ends, abed

Glowing gold

with glory bold

As she dips

her color slips

and quietly slides

as pale abides

into dark

that mark

the moon's sweet glimmer

and night begins to simmer

Lunar orb fades, setting

Stars blink, receding

Pastel paints birth

over our earth

Renewal never ending.

When I was younger, I remember the feel of mom's blanket. It was a silky cream comforter. My sister and I would sit together in it like it was a nest, and we were fledglings. And I would draw my pastel pink stuffed dog close to my chest as I drifted off. But nowadays, I curl up in my pastel green jacket alone in my room, tapping key after key. She prances off somewhere or another in her pastel yellow shirt that she's had for who knows how long. But at the end of the day, I guess we still see the same sunset together, the vibrant oranges dancing across pastel pink clouds as the whole scene turns to dusk.

I want to have a wardobe full of pastels, wearing mint sweaters, sky blue skirts, bublegum platforms, and yellow cardigans. I want to be the type of girl who wears a lot of blush, and speaks with a soft voice. I want to have lighter hair, that always perfectly frames my face, and I want to fill that hair with purple butterfly clips and flowers. I want to have pretty, matte, nails with little painted hearts. I want to be someone that can sing without a cracking voice. I want to play the guitar, and make people smile to the music I create. I want to be someone she would like to be around.

I want to be someone else.