“Paint” they said, “it’ll be fun” they said.

You never start where you intend too. You never end up where you first thought. The paint just kind of sits there. Having a one-sided stand-off. Staring you blankly in the face as your hand quivers and falls. It’s all completely horrible. You where foolish to even have started. Looking away, you angrily sigh. Your grip on the brush loosens. You stop. Your eye searches for a culprit. The stupid palette just mocks you. All the colors are off. It looks a little bit like something you would have drawn and proudly given to your mom to hang on the fridge in kindergarten. Repulsing. You are supposed to know what colors don’t and do go together well by now. But you don’t. Clearly. Wiping your miscolored hands on your stained t-shirt, (That you accidently put on inside-out in a fury of inspiration at the start of this doomed mess) you move your legs and walk. You walk until you almost hit the opposite wall. Hopelessly, you spin around to face your oponent, wondering who’ll take the first shot. Nothing happens. The sad piece of “art” just grins back slobbily. You’ve disgraced all creators who came before you. You squint. Tilt your head. Shake out the cramp from your hand and tricep. Getting up from the side of the couch which you braced yourself on, you aim for the cold, barely touched cup of green tea you made before your emotional world-war 3 loomed up. It tastes like old piss. You squint some more. Readjust your glasses and take another sip. It wasn’t any better this time. Staring out the window, you sit. You look at the mug. There’s an ant on the rim of the cup. It runs about as if its looking for its will to live. Pouring the tea out, cracking your back, you look over your shoulder and see your loss. For some odd reason, it doesn’t look as bad you thought. It’s not great, but you don’t feel ill by the mere presence of it anymore. You become a little lighter. Something sparks. With new authority, you pick up your weapon of choice. Readjusting your vision, you see that there are things to be done. Darker lines here, a blue tint there, a reshaping of light on its arch. You take a breath. Then release. It may not be what you intended, or even where you hoped you’d end up, but this time it may even be better. Better than the first time, the first impulse came up.