I looked at the brush in front of me. Did I really have to use it? Colors were calling out to me, begging to be experienced, to be felt. I gave in. A rich cobalt coated my hand. It felt cool like the morning breeze. But there was something else. A layer of tropical warmth under that initial chill. A brush couldn’t have told me this. Happiness surged up from my insides. I squealed as I made a broad stroke of blue on the drab wood flooring that I was sitting on. It felt good, addictive even.
I dipped my hand in the red next. No nonsense Red. Red felt hot, there were no layers to it. So straightforward and unabashed. I made a bold stroke of red on the floor. And another. And another. The floor was my canvas and I was now feverishly painting it. The red and the blue came together to give way to a regal purple. The floor was turning into an enchanted garden. I looked at my creation with a satisfaction that Michelangelo might have experienced when he painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
But it wasn’t enough. I had to dig deeper. I wondered what these colors tasted like. Red tasted like metallic anger, blue tasted like hot ice. I liked the taste but I didn’t like it, all at the same time.
I lifted up my blue hand to my mouth again when I heard the shriek. I instantly knew who it was. The woman who whacks the mole of my creativity even before it has a chance to rise from its hole. My mom.
She doesn’t see the beauty I’ve created on the floor. All she sees is a mess and the paint in my mouth. Hot tears streamed down my cheeks as she hurriedly cleaned up my work of art from the floor. “I’m never letting you play with my paintboxes again”, she said as she pulled me into the bathroom to clean the paint dripping from my mouth.
I just want to be left alone, to play, to get messy, to experience the world in my own way.
I want to be left alone, until it’s time to change my diaper.
Photo Credit – Jean-Simon Asselin on Flickr
