In my dreams, I can see.
There’s more in me.
I hold it, the brush that once flowed like a feather, hoping to revive the colors once composed by a simple stroke.
Before the brush and canvas can harmonize, my hand stiffens and pain shoots throughout.
I’m reminded, no matter how hard I try, it’s over.
I swallow my eternity, ache into bed, and shut my eyes.
I drift off into space.
Surrounding me are infinite colors that have been long held within. No need for a canvas or a brush. I’m all that and more.
This is all me.
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