✿ l u k e ✿

Because of what happened in school, I've been avoiding Ashton, and most especially Eleanor. I painted her more. I thought of her more. Just enough to make me content without having to see her.

I let out a sigh as I stare at the unfinished painting on my lap. Staring at her makes me appreciate the curves in a woman's body even more. I never thought I would be examining the curvature of a girl's collar bone. But hey, I never thought I'd be this lovesick over a single girl either.

But the thing is, I have moments of sadness whenever I'm done painting a picture of her. It's because of my longing of wanting to evolve her right from the page and hold her. Seeing her permanent smiles on my sketchbook never ceases to keep a smile on my face, but it doesn't always start off that way.

Art never comes from happiness.

It comes from an intense emotion that is never positive—that is found in the deepest part of your gut. Artists reflect on theirselves more than their actual painting. It's not all do I paint this should I make that line thicker how about if I do this if I do that. It's always about keeping a steady flow, letting your deepest emotions run through the tip of a pencil onto a canvas. It's about letting the paint, the ink, and the words be your tears.

And ever since I started painting, I've never cried once.

But due to my excessive painting, I don't have any paint left. I've run out of cream, brown, and orange—which, when mixed together, create a beautiful auburn that is the color of her hair. I'm desperately trying to finish this painting of her as fast as I could, since the brush is drying out and my tears are beginning to well up. My eyes are beginning to sting from serving as the dam between my tears and me shedding them.

So I grab some leftover money from yesterday and begin walking to the arts and crafts shop downtown.


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This is probably my favourite place in Queentown (a/n: i made this place up bc i cant be bothered to do research on actual cities omf). Julie's Crafts, Hobbies & More is a shop that provides everything you need from acrylic paint to the finest artist's brushes to sculpting clay. I've never had a moment wherein I left empty-handed. And I liked this place even more because the cashier is friendly, but never tries to converse with me. It avoids my whole frantic explanation about how I lost my speech and the inevitable look of pity from her.

She's nice, she's about my age, but she hasn't captured my heart the way Eleanor had. No, the way Eleanor is. She never fails to tug at my heart strings every time I look at her. And that's how I know about love—you never really run out of it. You fall and fall and fall and just when you think you're about to land; you don't. You simply keep floating.

I push the door open and immediately, the familiar crisp scent (mostly paint with a hint of lavender perfume the cashier girl is fond of wearing) of the shop engulfs me. She looks up from her novel and offers me her usual smile. I offer her one back, since what else can I give?

I don't even have to direct myself around the shop. I know exactly where everything is; I've been binge-shopping here too much. I stop beside an aisle of an alluring rainbow of acrylic paints and decide to buy everything I need and didn't need. It doesn't cost much, so it doesn't matter.

I proceed to checkout and bite my lip as the cashier girl piles up the cylinders of paint into a brown paper bag. She finishes and tells me everything costs nine point ninety-nine dollars. I give her a ten dollar bill, wave a hand dismissively as she begins counting coins to tell her to keep the change. She says thanks enthusiastically but I only smile back and nod.

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