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  • Melanie MacDonald

Art is a gateway to the soul

Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigue, I have had my vision. She put down her soul on the canvas. To anyone else it would look like a blur of colors. Dizzy. A total mess but to her it was everything. The yellow was the person her friends knew. The bright and bubbly kind person who wouldn't hurt anyone unless they wronged one of the people she so desperately loves. The brown is all her struggles and disappointments. Where everything was shit. The days where she couldn't quite make it out of bed and slept all day or the days where her anxiety had her climbing the walls because she felt like she was in trouble for no reason except anxiety. The blue was the areas of her life that no one sees. Where the disappointment turns into regret and self loathing. Having your keys confiscated in a parking lot or sobbing so hard that you vomit. When the facade fades and everything seems too real. Her vision would never be in a museum next to the Mona Lisa or Starry Night. This was too personal but then again isn't all art? That's the hardest part of art she was told. Giving up your baby, your child, your soul to the world for strangers who will never understand your background to judge with their grimy eyes and filthy tongues. "What was she thinking? This looks like a child's finger-painting." The canvas was her soul baring all her emotions and for the first time she felt she could be herself. She put the paint-stained cloth over the canvas. This was a vision too raw for prying eyes.

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