If I was a painter…

Colours seduce me, they do uncanny things to me. I was in pre school when I took to amity with colours, imbibing them with naked eyes. At the back of my mind, I always wanted to eat them to get more of them. Stupid, Isn’t it?
But I still do want to eat them, the thought of it makes me feel like I can taste something my eyes cannot complacently take in. And the smell of its rawness almost makes my heart flutter with sheer joy.

In grade 2, we got the most beautiful art teacher with classical approach towards art and specifically painting. She was absolutely beautiful with golden hair that cuddled with her outer thigh, the contours of her eyes marked by black kohl, and her pale thick skin shining like golden lilies. She was such a motherly figure that the comfort of her smell made me feel home. She was the first person to notice my love for colours and my inability to shape them into something beautiful.
Yes, I was a disaster at painting. I even considered eating paint once.

After 2 years of continuous and rigorous efforts to try to paint, I gave up on myself, and 2 years post that, she gave up on me too!
However, knowing about my love for painting, my mother took me to every painting exhibition she could easily secure passes to. And my failure took the best of me, every single time.

But to mine and my family’s surprise, my brother defied the ‘non-painter’ genes and turned out to be great at it, the right amount of colours with phenomenal siltation and his geometric ideas that ostensibly marked his master pieces. I always told him how much I envied him but he would promise me that he’d teach me. Everyone in the family was proud of my brother for acquiring skills that were beyond our collective reach. But as years passed by, he took to other important things in life and I took to writing. And my ‘non-writer’ family is equally proud of me now.

But what’s more?
My best friend who I met 4 years back also turned out to be a painter and I told her on one of our drunk nights about how I feel like eating colours and she told me she wanted to eat them too. My brother still paints sometimes but the zeal is gone. Even mom doesn’t take me to exhibitions anymore, instead, she buys me books.

But even after all this time, I wish I could paint. Colours still do unfathomable things to me. I still picture myself painting a landscape on the shores of red sea but I’ve been writing about landscapes and they work like magic. I can paint without using colours and brushes. But I think that’s what life is all about, some things are not attainable and you shouldn’t try so hard that you miss out on other beautiful things you’re capable of. I found my Eureka in writing and it is equally colourful.

And oh, this painting was made my me and my friends there :

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