I used to paint with fervor. Drinking coffee till morning hours, hands feverishly grabbing at paints and pastels. I'd lay the color down. A brush in my mouth and one in my hand. Rubbing paint and charcoal deep into canvas and paper.
Thick.
I would get inside the paper.
My world.
Black and vibrant blood red. Stark white sheets calling out to me, begging to be brought to life, brought to light.
Now my hands feel so empty. Shallow.
Lost their purpose?
I try picking up the brush, but it just hangs. Empty. Cold, without the heat that used to burn through my fingers. How did I get here?
Colors still dance around my head. Shapes, ideas, visions. They bang against the bars of my impotence.
While my hands hang.
Waiting...for something.