painting a girl

If I could paint, I would have never written this. Instead, I would have just painted her in all the colours that she lives in. For instance, had my hands been deft enough, I wouldn’t be searching for words to accurately describe the loneliness of her nights. Blue would have done it beyond my words, it would have brought to relief the azure nights of multiplying distances. She liked to be restless in such nights, like restlessness itself was a boon to be sought. In those wandering of everlasting distances in her courtyard she slowly figured out how the flowers she hardly noticed under the sun has quite a different colour, a different life, under the moon. Violet ventilated with red would accurately depict those flowers for you. If I could get a drop of Yellow, and trap the soul of Green in it, it would accurately describe the place where her wandering mind ended up unable to figure out what exactly causes her into thoughts of suicide and murder, or at times a little milder longing to bang her head, throw the teapoy against the television, or just break a bottle and thrust the longest and the most slender glass piece into one’s wrists. However, the Yellow and Green cannot be reached before we picture the Beige which stood for her skin right before she would rip it of life; the rusting Brown of murderous intent; or the polka dots of Yellow and Red as she contemplated death on a road accident. If I could paint this, I swear, I wouldn’t have bothered you with all this. Reddish Brown could have easily convinced you of its status as the predestined resting place of a girl who wanted to die but was confused how to and death came for her before she could prepare a note.