We spill sunshine ink all over our lives. We paint on blank canvases, these empty slates we were handed before the beginning of time. We share paint from the same palettes and bleed our haze-ridden dreams onto the sheets. We crouch on cobblestone streets and etch secrets in brightly coloured chalk.
We use borrowed markers and coloured pencils to highlight moments and scratch doodles in the margins of the books of history.
We sculpt and sketch, with trembling fingers and rubbery clay, our futures.
And as I struggle and stumble over and over to shape mine, I bruise my knees and graze my palms. My friends offer me crushed dandelions and words of caution that I meld into my art with tears. I have no idea what I’m painting. My fingertips are stained the colour of magic. And oh, I ache for it to be a masterpiece.
But even more than that, I long to dip my brush in liquid happiness, so that I enjoy every second I wield it.