There was once a painter who was very sad. He preferred to spend his time sitting atop a stool, and for hours he would stare blankly into the white canvas resting on the wooden easel in front of him.
Sometimes he would sit alone and cry, but very rarely. Most days he was too empty to cry, so he wouldn’t.
On his bleak canvas, he would always paint something magnificent. He deceivingly flooded his images with an abundance of only the most vibrant, eye-aching colors.
He never felt bright.
He chose to be a painter for what he thought it should have done for him. He was supposed to be able to paint over his feelings, and draw himself a path to his most-deserved happiness. Instead, the falsified world of color just splattered his mind with more emptiness. As each tube of paint hollowed, so did he.