I like to paint.
I like to paint stars.
I like to paint cats.
I like to paint words.
I like to paint life.
I suppose,
that's what it all is.
Everything I paint is life.
I'm not good at it.
It just helps me release.
Giving color to the sad,
blank,
lonely sheet of paper.
Painting everything I ever wanted to be.
When I was little,
I wanted to be a dinosaur.
Probably not the dinosaur you're thinking of.
I should be more specific.
I wanted to be Barney's wife.
Then one day I was told it would never happen.
I think that was the day I lost my color.
That was also the year I had heard,
for the first time,
Santa didn't exist.
I was 6.
Not even a decade old,
and here I am starting to learn the ugly truths of life.
I brushed it off,
and convinced myself they were lying.
He had to exist.
I needed him to exist.
To be honest though,
I remember that day.
Very vividly.
I went home and crawled into my bed and cried,
a lot.
I think that was the day I stopped believing in magic.
Then I grew up.
And realized a lot about this life.
If Santa didn't exist,
then how could God?
Was I being fed the same ******* about him,
as I was about the Tooth Fairy,
and Santa Claus,
and the Easter Bunny?
I mean *******,
we tell our kids not to lie,
yet we instill this false hope of magic in their heads.
Hoping one day they find out for themselves,
so we don't have to break it to them.
I wish I had just kept my mouth shut,
I wish I had never told anyone about my dreams
of being a big purple dinosaur.
Maybe then I wouldn't have to paint so much.
Because as much as I don't want to admit it,
the day we learn the truth about life,
is the day we are drained of our color,
and we turn into those,
blank,
lonely,
sad,
pieces of paper.
And there we will remain,
patiently waiting for some good news,
some color,
to fill our plain pages,
knowing deep down,
that happening,
is as likely as me growing up and marrying a big purple dinosaur.