Brush and Palette met for the first time when Brush decided to explore for a new canvass to fill. Brush had just finished sprucing up a canvass with hues of Blue.
The meet-up was nothing spectacular; Brush was simply looking for something it can gambol on while Palette happened to be overflowing with something it needed to let go.
The two soon realized that they fit to a T; thus, they’ve decided to continue what has already transpired. Times spent together would mean appreciation of different colors by Palette and lectures of different strokes by Brush. Everything was growing smoothly until the duo discovered the existence of Red.
Red started as small pigment of scarlet until it became a pulsating ball of crimson. Anxiety biled up Brush’s system as Red began to join in the duo’s merrymaking, for the former was still enjoying its Blue. Palette was still incognizant of Red’s being, yet all along Brush thought of the opposite.
It was like that until Brush became fond of Red. Fondness that gave Brush feelings of uncertainty, fear and delight all at the same time.
When Brush started to include Palette in dealing with Red, Palette then orchestrated a move, which Brush somehow expected from Palette. In was an expectation that triggered hesitation, frustration and anger on Brush’s part. Palette stayed where it was between Brush and Red, but Palette shed off its warmth that Brush enjoyed the most.
Red then cocooned in the warmth and safety of Brush’s bristles until the latter felt Red’s heaviness. Brush then felt the need for Palette and yearned for the latter’s sturdy well. Brush wasn’t asking for all but only a single well. Palette offered one of its well, but the distance seem endless. Brush then started to look for another well, even for another brush willing to cradle Red temporarily.
Brush begged for anyone zealous for something like Red. Brush wailed to highest heavens for someone to take Red in. Even if Brush had lost its voice pleading for help, everything was done in silence.
Brush was still wallowing in the pit of misery and pity when pangs of pain started to torment its bristle as if telling Brush to let go of Red. Panic enveloped Brush as relief started to storm in where Red was nesting. In a single stroke that seemed perpetual, Brush lost Red.
Brush looked around where Red could be, still hoping to see even the faintest trail it has left behind. From out of nowhere, a cry of jubilation and disbelief was heard. A tandem of canvass and brush was rejoicing for a new gift, a tube of Red paint.
From afar, Brush couldn’t help but shed a tear as Regret, Envy and Relief gathered around Brush and gave their assuring tap and embrace.
Brush then released the last string Hope had given. Brush has accepted that Red is not meant for her.