It took strength to not give in to my excuses. I stared at the unopened toolbox where I keep my paints, and it was the scariest thing ever. I lost count of how long it had been since I had a real painting session (not watercolor-on-my-journal painting session, but mix-and-make-a-mess-with-oil-paint painting session—ruin-your-clothes painting session).
I decided to go ahead and take my tools and paints out because I knew that if it wasn’t today, I would keep putting it off and then I would go off on vacation where I unfortunately couldn’t take my paints with me, because even if I could, oil paint takes forever to dry.
When I opened the can of Titanium White paint the first thing I noticed was the smell, strong with chemicals, but it still smelled like home. The paint inside reminded me of the time I had taken off. When I took off the wax paper I put over the fresh paint to keep it that way, it came off with a crispy sound, and I put my hand inside the can only to have it punish me with a thick layer of dry paint. It hurt scraping all that paint off. It hurt even more throwing away all that paint that could have dried as a beautiful new painting, but didn’t.
When I started mixing paint, I did it like a mad person. Pink, yellow, and blue. I squeezed the paint tubes in a rush, and mixed as fast as I could; I wanted the paint on the canvas now.
The moment the first stroke of paint touched the white surface of the canvas I remembered why I paint. Bastille set the beat, and my heart soon followed. I grabbed paint and stroked while I felt the dopamine fill my system.
I knew I still had it in me, and that I was back—finally.