The yellow fog stroked its back upon the window-sills and thrashed its tongue into the corners of the crusty evening, loitering upon the lakes that stood in drains filling the basement, a door yawned with a resonant echo.
Cob webs I was once fond of drifted liberally in the air, as the yawning door brought light to well-worn cement and peeling paint on the walls. The fresh air gave life to staleness in the room. Faded and torn white sheets roofed ancient furniture now drowning in dust. My teeth chattered as I blew a balmy mouthful of air on my deadened fingers. I was ready to get to work and win the contest of my dreams. The day was sneaking around the corner. Ten more days to go. The countdown had begun. 10…9…8...
I was ready to shine in my victory spot at the town’s art contest: Classical Arts. Now a crisp, snow white canvas was staring into my little brown eyes, mocking me, craving a delicious perfume of splendid colors. My bare palm embraced the slender, creamy paintbrush. I cradled the brush in my hand and leaned my head in the rising scent of dry paint. Pursing my lips, I blew softly over the icy air and let my eyelids drop. Darkness surrounded me with a shivery chill. Thin air glided upon me as I stared in space. My world feels so empty. All that’s left is sorrow, no rays to glow my way or light my spot.
My shoulders rose slightly as I breathed in, and hummed with my head low. I was deeply involved in my savoring and confident hobby: painting.
When I paint, I feel so free, like a bird ready to explore the world.
The scarlet sunset sleeping on my canvas had a splendor that astonishes me. My crispy clean canvas was splashed with color. Malleable tinges blended together. A crescendo of golden rays sweeps the watery blue paint. Delicate indentations slowly, faded behind the large distant white smudges of my canvas.
Life is a path of endless light. What is it that gives us the force to continue when we are weary and worn out? Sometimes a rousing scheme can help us replenish ourselves and be filled with potency to fulfill our life’s dreams. The root of all inspiration is the idea that our lives are earth-shattering. Inspiration is to know that what I do matters deeply to the world. When we have the feeling that our dealings are consequential, we are filled with the vigor and courage to accomplish our life’s dreams. And my inspiration is imagination.
Hi, I am Meenu Ravi. I am 13 years old and from Boston, Massachusetts. I like gymnastics and art, as well as playing outside. I like to write poems about nature the most.
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