Painting Strangers; A Portrait With Words

He had various hues of purples, greens, pinks, and blues surrounding him. Like a galaxy swarming around it’s focal point. Encompassing him no matter where he went. Emitting out of him as if it were all born within him. As if he harbored the light within his chest–kept it safe inside the pressure of his core–before it seeped out of him in a haze of starlight, like that long breath of relief you released after the weight of the world was taken off your shoulders. And when the light came streaming out of his being, he looked warm with it. Almost fuzzy, even, like that comforting face you wake up to on a cozy weekend. As if he had swallowed a piece of sunlight. Only, he wasn’t bright like the sun. There was something more softened than the sharp beams of sunshine about him. He was the colors bleeding into the sky during the twilight of dawn. He carried with him the heavy experience of darkness–you could see it on the set his shoulders–and yet with his arrival, he brought with him the weightlessness of hope.He was the sturdiness of survival; he was the strength to carry on.


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