Everyone else around is still painting, while I am here stuck - by M.S.

Chosen Topic:

What Comes After My Last Supper? (Painting a Brighter Future)

Consolation prize – AA20

By M.S., an ‘O’ level student-inmate from Institution TM1

Life is like a painting. Everyone has the same beginning. Just like a blank canvas, we are born into this world pure. The first difference that separates us is our name. Our base colour. While some choose to prime the canvas with bright colours, others fill it will dark hues. I believe that when I was given my name, my canvas was printed in ivory white. The pureness of the colour is parallel to the innocence of a newborn baby. Calming the hearts around and also clean from transgression. 

At the age of five, I begin to open my eyes. My heart. My canvas begins to be painted with different shades of yellow. Bright yellow, Naples Yellow, Lemon Yellow. Yellow reminds me of my mother. Her love for sunflowers filled my sight. It gave her hope and it painted my canvas with happiness. Her smile reminds me of a beautiful day with a bright yellow sun. Looking into my mother’s eyes, I feel home. Home is not a place. It is a feeling. And to me now, the feeling and the colour blends to become one.

Fourteen calendars later, someone painted my canvas red. The first time I saw her was at a school event. There are words that feel shapeless and overused. Love, for example. I could write the word ‘love’ a thousand times and it would mean a thousand different things. Red represents her. It could have been the Scarlet Red lipstick she wore on our first date. Or maybe Taylor Swift’s sang ‘Red’, she sings when she is alone in the kitchen. I sit here and think of her. Where is she now? Nothing has changed. Everything has changed.

Papa wears his blue uniform for work. Ultramarine Blue, I guess. He stands in front of the mirror, making sure his emblems and crests are in their precise bearings. Papa showed me what discipline is. But he never shouts. He portrayed confidence and made me feel safe. Blue reminds me of Papa. Everytime I see blue, it reminds me of him. His attributes has smeared onto my canvas. 

These three colours begins to blend. The three primary colours – blue, yellow and red – merging to produce more colours, tones and hues. That is what I am today. The reason I am not giving up is them. Even while I am stuck behind these thick grey walls, the colours begin to have more meaning. The painting becomes clearer. It is no longer something vague. My canvas begins to grow. More colours such as green, orange and purple appears. A little bit of my mother’s smile, mixed with the confidence of Papa, I now get green. Red and yellow, I get orange. Blue red, purple.

Suddenly, I stumble. I have accidentally spilled black paint onto my canvas. Oh no! I am so clumsy. Everyone else around is still painting, while I am here stuck. I put down my flat brush and stare at the canvas. Time is ticking. How does life go on? You think that when you stop, the world is frozen and waiting for you. But nothing stands still. Buildings get torn down. People get into accidents. Lovers leave.

Now, I take a washcloth and wet it. I begin wiping the black stains off slowly. We all regret things. It is not a matter of nature. It is a matter of moving on and being better. There are still specks of black but it is what makes my painting unique. No one can emulate it. With this mistake, I learn to forgive myself. Forgiving is not something you do for someone else. It is something you do for yourself. 

I am still painting. I am still learning. I am still grieving. My ultimate goal is to finish a painting that everyone remembers. I want my canvas to be like paintings created by Van Gogh, Da Vinci or ever Warhol. I want it to end with a legacy, not something forgotten, collecting dust in an empty storeroom. I do not want to have to say anything. I want my canvas to be a living proof. The things you do not speak of are the loudest things you say. When my painting is done, varnished and framed, what comes after my last supper?