Bursts of color slithered to the floor. The artist peered down as the paint oozed together like a shiny, smooth firework of bright reds and blues, with flicks of yellow.
She won't get paid for her work. She wasn't showing this to anyone. This was soul work on a sunny afternoon, tapping into the most sacred and most crucial kind of art.
She crinkled her eyebrows and dipped her hand in the middle of the swirls of paint. She took her dripping hand and used its fingers as a brush and began painting her arms, her neck, her chest.
This was her soul's truest calling... to see herself as living art, and at last, to celebrate what she sees.
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