Fiftieth shade of blue
He painted my sky clear blue and entitled me as an ocean, 'so versatile' he claimed. It seemed so perfect, almost ethereal. I thought to myself 'this feels true', but like any ocean, he was just a surge in the vastness of my water. The warmth of his art turned into a storm, as I realized the dyes he used were cunningly forged. In no time I was left with an abstract canvas, every color, befuddled within the other. I was baffled by my foolishness for letting him shade my portrait, but I was confined within my abyssal zone, as I let him in but forgot to guard the door.
As I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, my eyes swollen and red from endless tears, I wondered how I had let him control my life for so long. I had tried to leave him several times, but he always found a way to come back, apologizing and promising to change. And every time, I had believed him, hoping that this time would be different. But it never was.
One day, he brought me a painting, a beautiful canvas of blue hues. He told me that I was his ocean, so deep and mysterious. I was touched by his gesture and hung the painting in my living room, where it became the centerpiece of my home. But as our relationship deteriorated, I began to see the painting in a different light. The blue shades that had once reminded me of the ocean now seemed to symbolize the storm that raged inside me, reflecting the chaos and confusion that had become my life.
After another fight with him, I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed a brush and began to paint over the canvas, layering shades of blue on top of each other, each stroke of the brush like a wave crashing onto the shore, until the colors became a chaotic mess. The colors blended and swirled, creating waves of deep navy and pale cerulean. I felt a surge of energy flow through me. It was as if each stroke of the brush was a physical manifestation of my determination to take control of my life. With each layer I added, I felt a sense of release, as if I was shedding the pain and hurt that had weighed me down for so long. The canvas was no longer a reflection of his vision, but a canvas of my own creation, with every color and texture representing a piece of me.
As I painted, I began to see the canvas as a metaphor for my life. Each layer represented a layer of growth and healing, and every stroke was a step towards the person I wanted to be. It was messy and chaotic, but somehow, it all came together to create something beautiful. Just like my life, it was full of twists and turns, highs and lows, but in the end, it was uniquely mine. The colors that once represented the storm inside me were now a testament to my resilience and the beauty that I had discovered within myself. With each layer, the painting became more complex, each color blending into the next, creating a kaleidoscope of blues that spoke to my soul and I began to heal and found the strength to stand up to him and leave him for good.
When I finally stepped back, I felt a sense of pride and accomplishment wash over me. The canvas was a reflection of all that I had been through, the pain and the heartache, but also the resilience and the strength that had brought me through it all. It was imperfect, but it was mine. It was a thing of beauty that told my story in a way that words never could. I hung the painting back up on the wall and knew that I would never forget that sometimes, the most beautiful things can come from the darkest of places.
I have now learned that falling in love with the wrong person is like using the wrong paintbrush—it can ruin the beauty that we have created and take away from our unique style. But we can always pick up a new brush and start again. We can choose to let go of the wrong colors and embrace the ones that enhance our own. And in doing so, we can create a masterpiece that is even more beautiful and unique than before, consisting of various shades that make us who we are.
