Soft bristles, an extension of my fingertips. Bright colors splatter over a bare canvas. My mind finally running free. No words are needed here. Feelings I cannot voice start to blend into one. I search for perfection in the shapes in which I’ve created. But what is perfection when it comes to a feeling? Can a feeling ever be perfect? Perhaps not. And if that’s so why should I tear myself apart for what I create not being perfect, when the root of the creation is not perfect to begin with? To come to terms with such a realization is a feat I may never overcome. But still, I hold my brush with the expectation of such. To smear myself upon gesso with only my judgment to bear.