Red, orange, green and blue.
The paints on her colour palate never got extinguished or lost their shine. They were always as thick as she needed them to be. When she wanted to paint the sun, the orange would turn a little more fiery and the yellow would get just a little more radiant. Her colours had a mind of their own, she thought.
The canvas always absorbed her paint perfectly. Its surface was always smooth enough to make for the pencil sketches she so meticulously drew, seem to be lines of unmatched clarity and distinction. The canvas had a mind of its own, she thought.
Her brushes were always flexible when she needed them to be but sometimes they were taut and bristled. They held the paint when she wanted to paint the background and dutifully tapered down when she needed to do the corners. Her paint brushes, she thought, had a mind of their own.
So she painted with her magic colours and her brushes and her canvas and her pencils. Red, orange, green and blue. The sea in her painting came alive with tides that leaped forward boisterously. The sand gleamed under the yellow ball of fire that beamed at the world.
Across the bank of the sea, was a man. He was looking far ahead at nothing in particular but he still had his eyes focused on something of indiscernible importance. She smiled at him. The character, she thought, had a mind of its own.
As though he read her thoughts, he turned around and looked at her with a puzzled expression on his face. For a second she was startled. Only for a second.
Then she smiled. Slowly, she ran her fingers over the completed painting. She closed her eyes. The magical vision encompassed her soul. The luminous rays of phantasms, emanating from the prism.
A mind of her own. A mind of her own.