The Coral Blue Door

Excellence Award in the 'The Write Track 2015' competition

Walking past the coral blue door, contemplating the concealed paintings; locked away, wallowing in acrylic, soaking in their floral fragrance, dreamily waiting on a wooden shelf behind a wooden door; wanting only to be admired again.
Walking past the coral blue door and all I think about are sunshine yellow paint strokes. Where did they go? Why is murky green the only colour I see?
I know the paintings are behind the closed door but the only thing left are carcasses of canvases, painted in the days where pale pink blossomed on the end of my paintbrush; I earned things, I made money, I lived a life worth more than contemplation and longing.
Walking past the coral blue door and I can't even bare to turn the knob.
A life without acrylic paint is not a life worth living. I'm out of ideas. The paintings behind the door are peeling away layer by layer, still dancing in the angelic rays of dusty moonlight, lying in pools of dust;
And yet the only thing I want to do is change the colour of the coral blue door.

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