For weeks, all I wanted was to paint.
It felt like the solution
to nothing in particular,
to particularly everything.
The easel collects dust in the corner of my room now.
An empty canvas rests upon it, mocking me
for thinking I had an easy way out.
Feb 3, 2021
Feb 3, 2021 at 9:19 AM UTC
For weeks, all I wanted was to paint.
It felt like the solution
to nothing in particular,
to particularly everything.
The easel collects dust in the corner of my room now.
An empty canvas rests upon it, mocking me
for thinking I had an easy way out.
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