Smart Girl

02.05.17

or when you get so lost in colors that you can't think anymore.

so smart that i've been assigned a different book for literature, one that i'm not supposed to read for another three years as a critically-read work. because dr. phillips thought i was too smart to be stuck reading to kill a mockingbird, i had to read macbeth, which had resulted in enjoyable reading, easy quizzes, and a project to die for.

i sat, painting the ceiling tile with what seemed to be a whole quart of acrylics, and with each brushstroke, with the "dear hank and john" podcast playing in my ears, i sank into the painting. the grays and reds crawled up the horse hairs as my strokes grew messier, more intensive, the colors moved up my brush, onto my skin, and overwhelmed all of me, until all i smelled was the sour scent of artificial vibrance.

as i listened to an old pod, one concerning how queen elizabeth ii should be the world queen, i sank further into the colors in the dankly-lit garage.

and then a miracle occurred: i forgot that i was just the smart girl.

right then, i could only paint and feel empty, and maybe fill that hollowness of the soul with acrylics in attempt to bring color and light into me. because believe it or not, but even the smart girl needs the cheapest sort of medicine available to get by the mental illness:

art.