Sitting on a stool alongside the window. The sound of raindrops on leaves, tires blasting through puddles and an audiobook harmonize through the background of her mind.
Her first "real" painting in months grows and starts to take life on her canvas.
Her hands, simply the tool for some other form unseen and unknown, brushstrokes waivering between gentle and harsh to get out what's needed in order to finally get a message out.
It's chance to tell what it is unable to utter with words.
What did you hear when you saw her painting?
A sort of diary about my head space :)
She. Creates. Art.