Colors of the Abstract

She sat there alone with mind like a stranded island, complete yet something missing, full of thoughts yet it seemed like everything was empty. That was her life without her paintbrush. She observed how the world works, how the ticking of the clock gives so much to us while taking so much away. She found beauty in the flipping pages by the mild breeze. To her, the world was a sketch of the dream that she lived in and all she had to do was pick up the colors of her passion and paint the canvas of her life. That’s what beauty meant to her.

Elsa believed in putting the words of her paintbrush to use, to convey the dialogues of the colors which helped her to portray the monologue that described the thoughts of her mind. Often criticized of not being serious enough in life, she laughed at the hilarious conversations of the society that targeted her for not being prolific. As carefree as she was, she had learnt to take the denunciation as a part of the darker shades that were equally important. She savored the feeling of the nasty thoughts of others and very well put the same in her sketches.

With one of the most sorted faces, she had an extremely complicated wandering soul. Very often, she looked at the sky and enjoyed the vast emptiness. The immense darkness did not pull her down and rather pushed her further up to pursue her dream. She saw a lot more than just a few twinkling stars. Not knowing what’s ahead of her only made her more curious and drove her imagination wild to extract as many pictures of happiness as she could.

Elsa made everything come alive- from her thoughts to her mind blowing fantasies, from her happiness to the sorrow, from love to envy because as empty as it might seem, the room of her dreams was always occupied.

She lived it all till she was dragged down to the verity of existence that following what your mind wants isn’t always what the people around you would want you to do. Broken brushes, a room full of splashed paints, bruised elbows and the fresh mark of smack on her cheek reminded her that a splash of black could hide all the efforts put in the existing colors. They called it education, she called it a prison. But she never thought she would love the prison she lived in because she had learnt to paint the walls however she wanted to with the broken pieces of chalk and the freedom from the thought  ‘what would people say?’

Mansi Rayat | PGDM 2016-18