Abstract painting...

One of those listless times again. Sudden surge of wistfulness. The odd combination of memory, of blends between fantasy and reality, of blurring boundaries. Like how the darker shade goes onto the paper first, a strong colour, defined, with a name to itself. And then you spread it outwards, carefully lightening the borders, fading it more, and more, until the original colour is a pale shadow of what it used to be.

She likes them, these shades of colour that fade out into the light, the blends and the subtle highlights. Nothing blindingly obvious, nothing too definite. She lives in them, between these blurring lines and merging splashes of colour, shielding her from the stark, painful glare of reality--so dark, so constant, big patches of grey that mingle and mess up her colours, ruffle her anxieties. For this is not how the world should be. Of blues and greens she understands, as does she delight in dapples of yellow, pink, red and purple... the warm glow of orange, the quiet shimmer of white, even the defining silhoutte of black. But this grey mass, this undefinable entity that could blend just as well, so inconspicuoously with other colours, swallowing their glow, rubbing out their light... this she do not want, do not expect. Yet sometimes she becomes swallowed up in it was well, as do so many others, often forgetting her colours, the pictures and the paint, the light and the warmth.

Is clinging to your naively pastel pictures too impractical? Will there never be such thing as a rosy, peachy world? Must it only stay as an illusion, a fragment of a dream, put away at the edge of your subconscious, so that it will not be tainted but the waves of grey masses that devour us sometimes? But we have forgotten the world, forgotten ourselves and the pictures we once painted, because we struggle to fight the grey masses, live in only black and white, drawing lines and boundaries and living by rules and expectations that define what we are. Multiple-coloured personality? Nah, that is too schizophrenic, too frivolous, too fanciful.

To see the world through a child's eye again, picking things out by their myriad of colours, always watching out for a rainbow after the rain...