Stroke. Another stoke. The room through my achromatic vision. Darkness and Light coexisting in this room. Only the color of the scarlet paint was not colorless. A crimson image on the white wall. Stokes uneven and randomly moving. I, having no control. The strokes were short and bold. Watching, the strokes began to make an image. Fish. They began to slowly move and then swan through the surface of the canvas. The stench of copper and sickly sweet in the air. It hung in the air 'heavily' as I looked around. I glanced down to my wrists, which were coated in blood but red vines grew from the incisions. Unnatural. I pulled at the growing plant. It stung. The vines were life. My blood gave life to everything. Blood that is so abstract that pictures became real and life became a source from my body. The vines were wrapped around my legs and tripped me onto the loose paper floor. I continued to paint. No will, but painting, fascinated with the life that came to be. More fish from random strokes.
And then change. A bird, flapping its wings and soaring among the surface. Tears clouded my vision.
A will.
A want.
A way.
I have a reason to stay.
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