He is the one who comforts me. He is the one who knows my fears. One slender paint brush with soft bristles and a wooded core. One who holds all my secrets. One that I can tell everything to. From my hand we make beautiful artwork, but no one else can appreciate the work.

His existence is unexpected. He sends inspiring thoughts through my head. He goes up and comes back down, creating lines and figures that dance and sing to me alone. This is how we communicate.

If I forget my reason to be, he’d paint with me all day, the paintings becoming more intricate and beautiful every time. Paint, paint, paint the paintbrush would chant to me in my times of low. He inspires.

When I am too down to remember, when I am broken and defeated, then it is he who is there. When the world falls apart around me, I run to my strong paintbrush. One absorbs my agony. One whispers comforting words in my ear. One whose self-given job is to keep me safe.