Increasing her grip on the brush, she wipes her eyes with her left hand. The more she seeks out the image, the harder it is to keep control, and yet she knows that to relinquish control is the only way she can bring the image to fruition. She hates opening up this way, because every time she does, it’s like someone taking a knife to her heart and stabbing at it as if it were a piece of meat. Opening up, though, is the only way for her to grow, and although the creation of the painting will no doubt reduce her to a mess of snot and tears, it’ll mean she succeeds in putting something into the world that wasn’t there before—something beautiful. Something that has the chance to shine a light in the shadowy realm of her heart, and the hearts of anyone else willing to take a peek into her life. It’s all to do with balance. Like the chandelier and the feather, she’s balancing her father’s death with the birth of an idea, and ideas, the same as love, have the power to shape someone’s life. They had once tried to get her to visit a therapist so she could open up and vent, but talking to strangers held no interest. She was more than capable of understanding that the only thing that could help her was filling the void with colour. The more colour she brought into the world the more life felt not only bearable but meaningful. Of course, the trick was to arrange the colours in such a way that they magically danced upon the canvas with a life of their own, long after she stepped back and moved onto something else. It was a painful pursuit, yet the only pursuit worth seeking.