The Paint Brush

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The paint brush was finally put in peace, more than the canvas there are colours on herself. The shoulder length hair messily bounded by a band has many shades other than her natural chocolate brown colors, it’s the price of being a painter.

Even with a heartwarming and never fading sparkle of her smile, she had no one, though many secret admirers of her and her work. Maybe it is the way she lives, the way many want to follow but very few had guts to, she lived it as she has figured out all that was in her life, everyone ignored her maybe because she didn’t want to be noticed by everyone. Painting speaks louder than words and she wanted someone, anyone, to notice what she drew, the dreadful memories of past those silent nights that drove her crazy and she drew masking the real her deep inside.

Surely with that perfect body, the shining butter soft skin and pure brown reflection of her eyes which clams the heart, now she was just drying herself to skin and bones and those fading scars now took her body more than ever that even the high collar dress couldn’t hide them. Hope and faith were far beliefs for her she knew now that as she withstood past like everyone around her may have, she will go beyond the nightmares exploring and conquering whatever comes and at the end, she’ll paint of what is left of her soul. She’ll never let that smile and spirit down, facing by wit and giving a go is what she does, not caring if anyone gives a damn, she now follows her own path alone but with dignity, that’s her attitude, maybe with a cold heart but with a pure soul.

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