So you let her out. You reach out for your pastel pencils, your paintbrushes, the dusted tubes of watercolors, the box of soft pastels from your shelf. You start creating again. You start breathing again.
Art, as you know it, is both an escape and a jail. For one, you have to reach back out to the memory that hurt you before. You know the process like the back of your hand: you search for it, wade through the pain, until you find the beauty in it. There is always that one gem beneath the folds of darkness. As you close your fingers around it, you start putting colors on the white.
The particular train ride home that tortured you? The time your ever-smiling mask ached so bad because of the all-teeth grins you always flash (the fake ones! the fake ones!)? The moment your blood ran cold when you realized you are not who you think you are and will probably never know? They have their own beauty in them, too. You actually draft a whole poem for them, take out a couple of lines and have it incorporate into your splashes of paints and smudges of colors. You give them names, because you think it somehow give their existence a tiny reason of being being. This is it. This is the prismatic offspring of your loneliness and overthinking.
And in those countless moments, you feel like you are both dying and being reborn at the same time.