"A thanks to all my tears
Who were always there in my darkest times when I was alone."
This book is not about my pathetic pitied self. Perhaps that's all they'll ever see me as, perhaps they'll always assume that I was the victim. Perhaps this will...
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Sometimes I feel like I a sadistic. With my infatuation with tragedy, and the number of sad paintings garneting my bedroom, anyone would mistake me for one.
I wasn't crying, I just couldn't cry.
I was only painting black and blue. The colors screamed to me. I was shaking, and it wasn't from the cold. I was sobbing and it wasn't from sorrow.
I wanted to stab myself and the canvas.
I wanted to curl up on the ground with my canvas in front of me. I wanted tears to flow, but they just didn't.
My arms were covered in paint, and so was a part of my face. I had to go to school the next day, but I didn't want to.
I didn't want to see him. I didn't want him to see me. I wanted to cower in a corner and hide. I wanted to bury myself under ten blankets and hold my own self.
I wasn't demanding any answers from him anymore, I wanted him out of my head.
I took a blue stroke, then a black one, and then a green one.
The sky was a turmoil of blue, green and black.
It looked as if there was a hurricane's view from the top, like it was going to pull the entire world in. I found it pretty, but I couldn't deny the fact that it was scary.
Beneath the sky lay the New York City Square: dead.
There was no joy or happiness or people cheering and laughing. Everything was dead. No one was moving around. There were people, but they were all just there. They just existed.
They moon shone brightly in the sky, right over where the masses of green, black and blue met.
The moon looked horrifyingly calm. With the black spots on it at just the right places, it looked like a normal moon but at the same time like evil laughing.
It was mocking the viewers, it was daring them to enter. It was taunting them to take the painting likely.
It was a beautiful painting. But it was also a painting that made one's blood run cold. That gave people chills.
When I left it out to dry in the open, it was the middle of the night. Everything was deadly quiet, and there was sound except my breathing. I could hear the eeriness in the air. It scared me.
The city was asleep around me, and I was one of the very few people awake. I wanted to sing, it was a beautiful time to sing. There was no sound to taint mine, there would only be my voice. I would hear only me, and so would the others. It was just the most beautiful time to sing.
But I couldn't.
My throat was chocked from the tears that never made their way out. I loved my voice way too much to have such a drastic memory of it.
I was afraid that even if I would make the littlest sound, someone would wake up and see me in that condition. I didn't want my parents to find me like that; shaking from head to toe and covered in paint.
