Makeshift (Slow Updates)

True Colours

Refreshed that morning, I jumped from the bed and dressed myself, fully knowing that everyone was already up and about. I could hear them talking to one another below me... the floors weren't exactly soundproof in that house. I was surpringly energised, choosing colours that I wouldn't normally wear; definetly more fuller in tone and less dull.

(Wait-- how did I even know it was brighter or duller? That doesn't make sense--
Oh well. This is just a recap of my young story. Needs to be accurate, but not too sensitive to fiddly details.)

I remember mum mentioning how chipper I was that morning, glad to see that my mood was improving. My dad didn't seem to notice, or I hadn't noticed that he'd noticed. I didn't care. I was in a good mood, and in a particularly feeling-pretty mood too; nobody was going to tell me otherwise. I felt lighter, more jumpy, and ever so curious in everything. The world didn't seem brighter, but I felt as though it was.
And yet, that frustration still slinked in my brain.
The numbness was still there.
Numbness wasn't going to be beaten. I was mostly bemused with myself, what was I thinking?! I wasn't supposed to be thinking like that! I wasn't allowed to!

...

...

Was I?

Was it really because of the colours? Had I been psychologically drugged? The feeling was a stranger to me. I was a stranger to it. The stronger sense of returning to colours and vibrancy wasn't much, but it was enough to give me a better sense of belonging in the world.
Ah well. I shrugged at the thoughts, but panic still knawing at me, and decided to move on. My creativity was scrambling to free itself, and I wasn't going to try and stop it. The chains were straining, aching, trying to break away, and the emotions that clogged my mind were foggy, blurred. A sense of helplessness surrounded me, not wanting to resist what wanted to be free.

So I released it.

The full details of the dreams that I had been having hit me with full force, near knocking my brain to the floor of my scarred skull. Everything shined and I could feel something stir within me. Stories, old creatures, my childhood; everything that the dream had reminded me of glowing days and filled me with warmth. Making water dye shirts, learning about Egyptians, looking after animals, the girl I kissed, the bully whom I punched, the first thrill of a rollercoaster...
A sudden urgency to find paper, pencils and pens flooded the rest of my logical thinking, the need to finally release my real talents from the smothering silence was overwhelming! An array of crystal clear images crept into my head, giving me devious, yet interesting ideas that clashed and fought for my full attention, tearing and clawing for the main space. The first drawing using my own handiwork.
I knew what the dream was telling me!
I had to get creative. I had to be myself again. I had to find my language. That same language that showed me how to speak, without speaking the main human tongue.

'Am I ready? Am I able to do it like I used to?' My doubt quizzed me. 'What about back then? Your art is worse than your writing, which is a fact stated by countless English and art teachers...'

I shook the thought away, where on other days I would've allowed it to override me. Never mind, I began searching for paper and pencils. I needed something to help me in the dream. Something that would bring colour as my will. At the touch of my hand and the flick of my wrist.

Like a paintball gun! No... too violent. Although I've always wanted to do that. Running through the battle field, firing at the enemy whilst I'm fleeing through paint shots... but normal paintball guns wouldn't spread much further than where they land.
So that was off the list.
Wall paintbrush? No... too slow. I mean, SURE it would've been fun to paint in all kinds of patterns and colours, but my touch spreads would override the patterns, and I hate to do-over old art. It just felt like washing away what was part of me.
So that was a bad option too.
What about... a gun that fires paintbrushes?! That sounded amazing but... a little inconvenient. The paintbrushes would've clattered onto the floor every time I fired one, and would leave more for me to clean up... and where would I even get that many paintbrushes anyway?!
I groaned, placing the papers to the side of my messy desk. Still nothing... couldn't I have done the painting all by my self? Well, I eventually asked myself this, but the more... enthusiast side of me said that I shouldn't do it alone. Typical. It was a younger version of me though, so it was understandable. Logical left brain was in charge at that moment, and it was set in that mode for a while.