She kept her blue paintbrush around her at all times, there was never a day that she lived without its sweet bristles brushing her skin. It kept her sane, in a world that drove so many insane. She watched as the news repeated the same statements each night: murder, war, hatred, and she would just say, "apathy. apathy" each time the words crossed the screen."Apathy. apathy". She heard it in her dreams, in her thoughts, from the words of others. That is why she never let go of her blue brush, because everytime the word pulsed through her mind she would grab for her paintbrush. And instead she would be engulfed in her deep need to care and to feel and to inspire. She would be okay as each stroke soaked through the paper, and instead she would hear, "empathy.emapthy". And here, and here alone she would allow herself to break and bend for the world. For the strangers who lay helpess on the sidewalks, for the widows, and the orphans, and the broken people acting whole. She allowed her watercolor tears to drip off her chin, and she would just sit and feel the pain for those who have fought anf lost. Who have hoped and been dissapointed. Who have loved but been rejected. She felt, and she felt, and she felt it all.
The Blue Paintbrush
February 27, 2017