The Rain On Monday

Written words are the only thing my mind can find ease in.


61. Wings

There was a girl whom I had art class with, whom always sat at the back of the room, facing the window.

She never spoke aloud, but her paintings said articles.

She wore her hair in a sloppy bun everyday, golden locks misplaced on her forehead or tucked behind her ears.

Her green eyes were always so captivated by the greyish white clouds and shouting geese outside.

One day, our assignment was to create a portrait that reflected how we saw ourselves.

The following Tuesday, it was time to showcase our work, and right from beneath her white sheet was her canvas painted grey with a goose in the middle.

Our art teacher gave her a 90%, and everyone except for me knew why she painted that picture.

The painting is now hung in the art room, right beside the window, because the following Tuesday, we saw her as she saw herself.

Leaping off of the rooftop, she convinced me that she was a bird, maybe even herself too, but once she hit the pavement, her dream died along with her.


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