Fidele Sirius Yureta...[WIP]

I've always had a love for painting, the brush seeming to send a rush of warmth through me each time I hold it in my long fingers. I love the feeling that I can create almost a new world, the bristles at the end of my brush able to bring life to anything. It even gave life to me, or atleast gave life to the love of art inside of me, for I didn't always contain a desire to paint. I only found that part of me when a small, rather peculiar, caught my attention. He sat boredly in the middle of the road, a brush held in the palm of his hand as citizens passed by without notice.

I was the exact opposite as the people that walked by, for the man was the first person to catch my attention. Luck, you could call it, but I believe it was fate. My feet had almost led me to the chair placed before his canvas, a smile appearing on my full lips as I saw the delight planted clearly across his face. Almost immediatly, he picked up his brush and began to paint. As I said earlier, he "painted the life into me." I sat there for only an hour, the last minute coming to a close as he turned the canvas toward me. The sight caught me off gaurd, and for a few moments I believed I was looking into a mirror. Except, there was something more beautiful about it, for the delicate details seemed to spring to life.

The first thing that caught my attention was the brown swirls that curled around the girl's face. It fell in delicate waves and curls down to her waist, the color of it being a dark brown that could almost pass as black. My eyes followed the hairline, watching as the tiny baby hairs that framed her triangular face seemed to pull down in the middle into a small widows peak, even though it was hard to notice and was uneven. I couldn't help but stare in awe at the tiny details contained in the large strands of hair, the way the painter had to mix the colors to make shadows and light, as if he were actually trying to bring the painting to life.

The next thing my eyes found were the large eyes that gave the impression that she had just gotten scared out of her mind. They seemed to form into almost a perfect circle, yet the outside corners formed into a small point, as if she were trying to squint yet failing miserably. They stood close together next to her long, skinny nose. It was extremely straight, ending at a small point to the end. Below the nose were the full lips that were almost pulling up at the ends into a grin. I was using those same, pink lips to smile brightly at the painting, sure that my slightly bucked teeth were going to show through.

As much as I just wanted to stand up and take the picture with me (I was sure the man was waiting eagerly for his money), I couldn't help but move my eyes downward to take in the bottom half. Beneath the gentle triangular face was the the slight curve as her skinny neck formed into a small set of skinny shoulders. The next thing that caught my attention seemed to cause me to pull back slightly, for the colors that seemed to pop out at me caught me off gaurd. The patterns and colors on the clothing were the exact same as the ones I was wearing, my eyes not being able to stop following the delicate lines and swirls contained in the fabric. It looked real.

It was amazing how the artist was able to put so much detail in the painting, and capture only that one sight, yet be able to hide the flaws that appeared on someone. For example, he was able to hise the blemishes that appeared on my face easily with the light pale paint, and could cut off the long legs that caused so much clumsiness on my part. No one would guess that the girl in the painting was actually a skinny girl that stood at a tall height of 5'9'', yet it was real enough for anyone who looked at it to think that they were looking through a window at the girl. At me.

After that moment, painting changed me. Every moment I had the chance to paint, I was. With every scene that I saw, the immediate thought that drifted into my head was not of how beautiful it was, but of how I could make it even more beautiful on canvas. Painting... it just calms me. With every worried thought that I have, picking up a brush immediatly wiped every other thought away. Painting even changed me. I was no longer the girl that walked around with a narrow mind; not noticing the scenes around her. I had transformed into the girl that had an open mind to everything, and noticed every beautiful piece of nature.

From that one moment when my eyes fell upon the beautiful painting, my personality even changed. It was as if the painter that had created me just erased everything about me and painted a whole new girl. The painter didn't just paint a new appearance, though (My sense of style changed immensely), for my personality had changed as well. I was no longer the simple girl that had no meaning in life, for I had transformed into the eccentric hippie.

Before I had spotted the painter in the crowded street, I was just a girl who focused mostly on grades in school and what I was going to wear the next day. I had no meaning in life, except for trying to gain the approval of others. I just wanted to fit in. It wasn't until my eyes fell upon the sunken face of the painter before me that I realized I was my own person. I don't know what it was about him or his painting, but like I said, he had just painted the life into me. He was my creator, and I was his painting.

I now face the fact that before I had met the painter, I was a little brat that only wanted to climb the social ladder. But now, those things don't matter to me. If anything, I seem to still climb that social ladder, but not in the levels of popularity. Instead, I help others witht heir problems, and focus on the world around me instead of dwelling on my own problems. I'm no longer the girl that picked on the kids that I deemed unworthy of my acceptance, for I now stand up against those kids. I stand up against what I used to be. It pains me to see others stepping all over another without a second glance, and sends shame into me to think that I used to be one of those people.

I can't believe that I used to stand by and watch as the older kids picked on my little brother. I stood by and watched as they shoved him around, laughing when he failed to spit out any defensive words or was incapable of fighting back. Now, I seem to gaurd him with my life. I dedicate most of my time (the time that I don't spend painting) on helping him with his problems, not letting my sorrow and shame overwhelm me when I see no improvement. I just wish that I could open his eyes the same way my painter had opened mine. I want him, along with many others, to see the world I do. I've already begun to notice, though, that that dream is far away.