She read the note over and over again till she could recite it verbatim. It seemed to evoke mixed feelings from within her and she didn't know what to make of it. There was a sense of hope, yet along with it came a lot of uncertainty and anxiety. Should she be happy for the hope or distressed for what could happen otherwise? Maybe she should stop thinking about both and wait for time to bring answers as it does always. Why couldn't solutions come easier, Why isn't there some make-believe Utopian land where she could escape to from her marsh of thoughts? She wished, hoped, sighed all in vain.
Again, she read the note hoping to discover some underlying meaning to a few simple words. Words, they fail you when you need them the most and come tumbling through at all the wrong times. Weird things they are, words. They sting, soothe, encourage, praise, condole and make you feel all those things when strung together, that you can only experience and never express.

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The brush made random strokes across the canvas. Pastels and oils sprayed, spewed and spilled. Crayons treading uncharted boundaries across the center. Some blotched, some merely spread in a fit of anger. Some caressed and rubbed by the palm, rest diffused beneath it. The fingers hued with acrylics. The once white t shirt had no white anymore. Here he was, a small blot in the painting class amidst the rest.

Also,
A million hits ! Over 4 years! Witnessing the growing up. Thank you! :)

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