A Blank Canvas

I can feel the rough linen canvas rub against my fingertips as I clutch it tightly, beginning to perspire. As I walk through the proverbial, yet so real, front doors of high school, my bulky, blank canvas lightly bangs against my leg. My fingers are wrapped so tightly around my acrylic tubes of paint, they nearly burst, attempting to stain my hand. This feeling of uncertainty, of being miniscule, wasn't something I was willing to become accustomed to. I painted this feeling on my canvas. It was a deep, cobalt blue, perfectly signifying the colour of my thoughts and my outlook. I search through the sea of faces, seeking a familiar silhouette. Eventually, after what seemed like centuries, I find a pod of friends standing in small circle, hugging a lonely corner. This intuitive whim of familiarity is painted hansa yellow on my canvas. I slowly gain a comfortable aura after a few months into grade 12, my canvas gaining more and more colours as time travels past. My first love colours my canvas a blushing pink, and blooms into a passionate alizarin crimson. Heartbreak brings a shroud of grey and black, looming overhead for ages. After the dog days, I realize that life needs warmth, and my canvas needs colour. My friends lift my spirits, I succeed in every class, pen-to-paper, I am on fire. Flecks of electric purple, neon green, and hot pink are splashed onto my canvas. It is more wreckless now, in the most responsible way possible. Every single second of experiences I endured in highschool, created the most beautiful masterpiece. I soon realize, that the duty of every high school student is not to survive, it is to thrive. The greatest thing achieved and ever felt by me, will be looking at my canvas at the end of the ride, and being content and proud of what I have created.