‘Paint… your truth.’
The pages of Elara’s journal lay open, filled with sketches and fragmented thoughts, a reflection of the turmoil within her. The canal water shimmered, reflecting the pastel hues of the houses, but Elara’s eyes were clouded with deep sadness.
She had come to this quiet town seeking refuge, a place to escape the shadows of her past. But the shadows had followed her, whispering doubts and regrets. As she stood on the porch, a gentle breeze stirred in the air, carrying a faint whisper, ‘Remember your purpose…’ it was barely audible, a thread woven into the chirping of the birds and the lapping of the water, yet it resonated deep within her soul, a forgotten melody stirring to life.
Elara paused, her hand hovering over the page. ‘Remember… your purpose…’ The words echoed in her mind, a soft insistent nudge. She had spent so long trying to forget. To bury the pain of her past, the idea of purpose felt foreign, almost mocking. She closed the journal. A sigh escaping her lips. The sun, usually a source of warmth and comfort, now felt like a spotlight, revealing the emptiness within her.
She rose, drawn by an inexplicable urge, and she walked to the edge of the canal. The water reflecting the vibrant sky, seemed to shimmer with an unworldly light. As she gazed into the depths, another whisper reached her, this time clearer, more distinct. ‘The colors…they speak…’
Elara frowned.’The colors?’ She looked around, noticing the vibrant hues of the pastel shadows of the houses. The deep blues and greens of the canal. She had always been drawn to color, it was the language of her soul, her artist expression. But after her relationship, the colors seemed to fade. Her art, once a source of joy became a painful reminder of what she had lost.
She walked along the canal path, the whispers growing stronger, more insistent. ‘The colors…they speak…of healing…of hope…of you .’ Each word was like a gentle brush stroke on her wounded spirit. A wave of emotion washed over her. The thought of creating again felt both terrifying and exhilarating. She hasn’t touched a paintbrush in years. She found herself drawn to a closet at the backside of the house. An old weathered easel stood half hidden in the shadows, it’s canvas was blank. As she stood there, hesitating, a final whisper reached her, clear and resonate. ‘Paint… your truth.’
To be continued…