Filthy

I love having paint on my hands. Being filthy in a way I can't clean off. It sticks. It discolors. It embeds itself in the skin. Rage dissipated on the brush. Transfered to the canvas in broad swaths of color. Mingled, mixed, warped. The smell of thinner tight in my nostrils as I wash the brushes whatever emotion lingered gone. The swell of color in the bucket gone grey. Dull like void inside, the fire once bright and hard, now a lingering ember of energy.

It takes days to clean my hands after I paint with oils. I get the paint on me by accident. Almost as though it jumps on me. It's meant to be there. Yellows, ochre, brown, blue, red, black, white, oranges. Pebbled across my skin. Lingering as echo's of the strokes of my arm. Reminders of moments of creation. Something new where once there was nothing. LIke rough skin the canvas pulls the paint off the brush birth a new image. Suckling onto itself the new life form spewed from within my brain.

What sensation comes with the release. Pent up, caught up, self pity, anger, pain, pure vital energy.