November Rain-Prologue

Nothing beats the feeling of a paint brush propped between your fingers.

Whenever I paint, I'm not myself anymore. I am teleported into another world, a world that's beyond my control. This world relies heavily on instinct. The humming of the outside world stops. I can only hear my brush softly moving back and forth, back and forth. Beads of sweat drip down my forehead, along my waistline, at the bottom of my back. Art is parasitic.

Running across the wall, my paint brush thrives with a mind of its own. It takes full advantage of Kimberly Kentin. I like to use every shade of every color, because no two things in this world are universally the same. The brush bleeds to its death. To the ground it collapses, and soon, so do I.

I cringe. It looks awful! I pull a Jackson Pollick and splatter remains all over it. I kick cans against it in bitter frustration. While I do this, I cannot stop crying aloud.

A million thoughts emerge. How am I going to ever compete with the big leagues? Who will ever appreciate my work if I don't? At this point, I lay on the cold ground. My eyes are glued to the wall. All of the hours I WASTED. For what? All of the things I could have been doing. All of the classwork I ignored because I thought this was justification.

I'm not proud of what I did.

Since it's mine, my creative offspring, I choose to take full ownership regardless.

With a tilted head, I evaluate everything. I followed expert advice and never stopped in my tracks. I did what I thought was right. Some people might argue and flaunt their opinions, but those were THEIR opinions. If I was happy with my art, I had the right to be. Others shoot criticism at you, but YOU dictate what matters.

I smile.

The painting looks different, no doubt. It probably won't be a candidate for kitchen decor. The range of colors outline life's complexities; my mind subconsciously did this. The more I study, the more I realize how well it relates to humans. Aren't there many branches of personalities? Different goals and talents and aspirations? Races and ethnicities? Along the vibrant streaks I trace my finger.

The combinations make this all the more beautiful.