My right-hand trembles violently as I pick up the brush in an attempt to paint but I failed something within me is holding me back. And that is what has obviated me from going near the brush and canvas for years now. I couldn't resist that magnetic urge to paint when I wandered my way into my grandfather's studio. It feels like some strong force in the universe is compelling me to create something out of my wild imagination but I fizzle anytime I hold the brush in my shaking hands, and I have been at it for minutes now.
Giving up painting did make me feel a huge part of me has been ripped off. I had to make that painful sacrifice to become strong. When I took the brush I realized the fear of being weak took hold of me. April Jackson was weak which means everything about her was a weakness including painting. That's what defined fragile April Jackson and I'm no longer her. Painting died with her that night.
