I remember when I was younger and there was a girl in my class. She was an amazing artist, beyond anything you could imagine. The colour from her canvas dripped and left its mark. Even though she was so good, no-one ever saw her art. It was hidden under layers you could say. The meaning behind it was uncertain, but it always seemed to intrigue me.
I remember sitting watching her, the blade tortured the canvas; the purple splodges only drew pain to my eyes, but her thunderous devil eyes told a story, like she was trying to tell me something. She used to walk down my street, picking thorns delicately from the petite plants, only to brutally discard them later on. One day I caught up with her, you could tell my presence was forbidden to her. I asked her, why did she draw so much? Surprisingly she replied that it eliminates her immortal pain. She slowly pushed her sleeve up and showed me her work. The purple splodges were darkening bruises; the colour that dripped for her canvas was blood dripping from her arm. She looked at me sternly waiting for an answer. I replied simply with the truth "I like to draw too". That day I learned I wasn't the only one, the only one seeking the light. Now that i'm older and I can see it clearly. The scars I liked to draw will stay with me forever, just like the pain I retain...