Page 128 of If You Give an Artist a Killer Muse

The next day—or later that day, depending on how one sees it—despite having little sleep, I have this burst of energy, and I just need to paint something.

I'm standing in the park, staring at a blank canvas.

What do I feel like making today? I just have this surge of energy coursing through me, and I feel it'll look incredible in paint.

I grab a clean paintbrush and dip it into the yellow paint; that color is calling to me for some reason. I inhale deeply and go for it, my strokes hesitant at first.

Fuck, what am I painting? Why yellow?

Fuck it, I shouldn't be questioning myself, I should just keep going.

As if my little pep talk to myself is helpful, the energy within me transfers to my hand, and my strokes become more confident.

More sure.

While others are comfortable talking to a random stranger about their problems to calm their thoughts, painting is my therapy. I've never been comfortable talking to people about my little issues. But I noticed that if I didn’t find anything to use as an outlet for those issues, I tend to get…violent.

No, I don’t kill people like someone I know.

Which, by the way, still fucks with my head.

But I found painting to help calm me down. I randomly choose each color, and with each brushstroke, I feel a release and calm the storm of emotions inside me.

After what feels like hours, my arm starts to ache. Which is fine because I'm starting to feel drained. I put the paintbrush down and stare at what I've created.

Holy shit.

Damn.

It’s chaotic as fuck. Bold strokes of red, green, and blue paint sweep across the canvas, accompanied by random bursts of yellow and white. There are hints of black pigment lurking in the shadows of each corner, adding depth to the colorful chaos. But the color that stands out the most is that yellow.

I frown. Why do I feel like I’ve done something like this before? My eyes widen, staring at the canvas until it finally hit me.

Fuck… I have done something like this before. Probably with the same colors. Especially that fucking yellow.

Wait.

Aw, no.

Fuck no.

Come on! I used yellow because it reminded me of—

My phone vibrates, interrupting my thoughts. I clean my hand with a paper towel and look at the text notification.

CRAZY MIGRAINE:

-I have a question.

-Hello, by the way ;p xxx

Okay, I know I have a bad heart, to begin with, but why the fuck does it feel like someone just injected a shot of adrenaline into my chest and now it’s beating like crazy?

My doctor is not going to be happy.

ME:

-What do you want?

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