When I felt cramped inside, I opened that same old cabinet in the basement. There were paints. I had bought them on a whim and never used them.

I spread out a sheet of film in the kitchen, turned on some music, and started drawing. Not a picture. Just movements, spots, lines. The paint was flying, my hands were blue, my cheeks were red, I was all in colors. And it was beautiful.

Now I draw once a week. Not because I can. But because I feel it. I’m not afraid to make mistakes with colors. They’re about freedom.

Sometimes we all just need paint and a little mess.