There is beauty in paint Stroke here Stroke there But ‘Twas not perfect yet, For she needs portrayal in the most Gorgeous way Just like her.

The way the hair falls, A curl of light Stroke here Stroke there Wrong stroke Wrong line Slightly wrong curl Colors too dark Unlike her.

Tear it up Rip Start again Not like her The light falls just right I can’t create that light Not the grace or the Dance She smiles reassuringly And I rip the canvas again It’s a canvas torn👀 And it looks like the thorn In my neck I can’t think Until I finish this Until she likes it Until she likes me.

That’s when I stare into her eyes. I can’t look away, they’re so bright and beautiful. I could spend days just drawing her eyes and I’d still never quite get them right. She tilts her head curiously at me, and I am enamored in her gaze.

I put the paintbrush down and realize, all this time I was afraid of losing her, telling her story the wrong way. But I’ve been forgetting that she’s right in front of me, and that’s all that matters right now.

I realize now that I have never said a word to her.

She laughs at my staring eyes and it makes me feel warm inside.

For the first time, I smile back.

Is this what love feels like?

… You guys don’t wanna know how long this was in my drafts💀

Oh also, im gonna do something similar to what Jewelie Rain did, choose a number between 1-83 in the comments. Hopefully it’ll motivate me to finish my drafts before they breach 100-

When Zelda walked in, I couldn’t keep my eyes from looking anywhere but her. She was beautiful. Her hair was a dark brown, and in the sun sparkled almost golden. Her face was pale, but fair and sharp. Amber eyes lite up her face, and dark lashes fluttered up and down. Her nose was straight with a small bump. Zelda was beautiful in an artist’s eye; in my eyes she was divine. Every angle of her face held a different sort of grace. I feared my painting could not completely capture her beauty. But despite my worries, I dipped my paintbrush and began painting the most beautiful woman.

“It takes years to paint perfection” I tell that to anyone that asks

Why are you taking so long when normally your masterpieces take only weeks?

Why is barely any paint on the canvas?

Why do you just stare at that poor girl for hours on end?

Perfection How can you paint utter perfection? How can you even put something that beautiful on a canvas without taking away some of thier glory?

The girl doesnt seem to mind just sitting there. Whatching me watch her.

Is she aware of her beauty? Does she understand how luminescent her presence is?

She doesn’t seem to know. She oblivious to the spell she has cast on me.

I dont know how to escape this trap she has put me in. Longing forever for something that cant be mine.

Sitting there on the unworthy stool, I almost want to pull it away and bring in the perfumed couch. But of course I can’t do that, now. You’re comfortable already, fanning yourself in the heat and humidity of the day. The flaps of the tent are still; there is no breeze today, but you are so deserving of one. I can’t bring my eyes away from yours, anyhow. This whole time, the whole three hours I’ve been painting you in portrait, I haven’t been able to draw my eyes from yours. You think nothing of it, of course, as you know I am here to paint you. You must assume I’m to your body by now, with the general sketch of the face done, and in honesty, I don’t know where I am. The canvas must reflect just one eyeball, drawn again and again to perfection - if I were to look down. But I can’t - I can only see your eye, and the left one in particular, and how it is calling my name. I paint and draw and sketch the oval frame of the orb and without a further thought I drop the brush and reach forward to have it for myself. You make no noise in complaint.

Reds as dark as the color of blood. Blues shining like a sparkling ocean. Yellows as bright and radiant as the sun. These are the colors I am used to using while painting scenery or portraits, but they aren’t good enough for the woman in front of me. Not even a little bit.

She has dark, luscious wavy black hair, and expressive light brown eyes that sparkle in the candlelight. Cheeks lightly dusted with freckles and slightly pink. Her flawless skin and cherry red lips complete the full picture. She stands with a posture full of grace and elegance, yet is as welcoming as a warm, cozy blanket on a cold winter day.

The second she had come through the doorway of my studio, I knew she was special. Something in me instantly connected with her. And before I knew it, I had fallen in love. Maybe it started when she shook my hand and I looked into those gorgeous eyes. Maybe it started when we made small talk about things that I wouldn’t even care about otherwise but did because she did. Maybe it started the day I started watching her every move, as small as it may be.

Painting her turned out to be an even harder task than trying not to blush every time she came twenty feet near me. All the colors I had seemed to pale in contrast to her beauty. I doubted a portrait could even begin to capture it. Nonetheless, I had to try.

I spent my whole morning colors together, eating bits of food when I could, and briefly talking to the woman. I learned that her name was Elizabeth Rosewood and she came from a wealthy family. Her father was a lawyer and mother a surgeon. Her elder brother was studying to become an architect, and she was going to be a nurse. I showed the required amount of interest in her other talk, but my mind was occupied on her first two pieces of information. If her family was rich, where does she live? Was she from England? Where does she work at? Most importantly, was she close to anyone…maybe she had a husband or boyfriend? Though she looked young, she was still an adult and looked mature for her appearance. I decided to ask her straight out anyways, and she replied no, she did not. Relief flooded my chest and my breathing slowed down to normal again. Just the thought of someone touching her or hugging her made me grip my arm wrests on my chair tightly.

As the morning passed into afternoon, and afternoon to night, I became more worried about how to make the colors needed for her portrait.

I love my job. I do what I love and people want it. Never do something you love and are good at for free.

I put my mind and soul into what I paint. And today I am only drawing eyes, something that I have had a fascination with since I discovered my love for watercolor. I can do acrylic and even just charcoal or chalk, and I am just as good at it too. But that doesn’t matter. I am also good at things like cooking. But I don’t wake up in the morning with a desire to do it. When I open my eyes for the first time in a new day. My mind immediately flys to my watercolors. It is almost like a craving. I wake up. My heart is pulling me to a blank canvas.

Oh, what a blank canvas promises. There is no limit. And seeing an empty canvas is all it takes for me to find my brushes and fill a cup of water. The water is almost as beautiful. When you first dip a paintbrush into a clear glass of water, the color can do one of two things. It can seem to be silky, like the northern lights before it mixes in. Or it could go like storm clouds, sort of expanding, in a way.

But my first thought of the day, was eyes, watercolor eyes. So when I got up, I opened a canvas, the emptiness filling me with a sort of excitement. And I started sketching. Every great thing is just a sketch at one point. But not for long. Once you add color and take the time to get the colors just right, shade them, and expand, it becomes magical or magnificent even. But the sketch doesn’t fix itself. It takes a lot of work and time.

So that’s what I did. The eyes were large. I imagined they came from a woman. One strong but still kind and loving. Her skin was light and lovely. But obviously the first thing you see are the eyes. The lashes are long and dark. She has a light that fills you with a golden warmth.

But the color, oh the color, they were amber eyes. Open and perfect. It wasn’t normal amber however, they were the kind of amber when the sun hits them at just the right angle. And they are alive, swimming with the perfect mix of gold and a dark brown. Like… I can’t put words to it. Sort of an ocean? Alive and powerful, but at the same time calm and… and… peaceful. Like just one look would make you feel protected and safe.

And you could tell I wasn’t perfect because, one of the eyes was different than the other. The right was more of an orange brown on the inside, closer to the pupil, but they slowly stretched out into a dark brown. With the tiniest bit of a green tint.

The left however, was more of a yellow gold color. And it stayed that way until the tip of the iris, where it turned a solid black. But still looked natural. I looked from a further point of view and you couldn’t tell too much. And I think it was perfect the way it was. It didn’t need to be changed. At all.

It only took me a second to realize. But as I looked into my watercolor eyes, I knew who they belonged too. I stood up and left my paint studio. I ignored the questions of the people working in the same building. I ran. I threw myself into the car and pulled away and drove like it was my last chance.

As soon as I got home, I burst through the door. I dropped my coat on the floor.

And I grabbed her. I held her as if our lives depended on it. Holding her close, every breath coming from her mouth was absolutely perfect. Her laugh almost made me fall apart. I pulled back, just enough to see her smile. And look into her eyes. Her kind eyes that melted me if I looked to long.

“What is all this about?” She asked still smiling.

“I love you.” Was all I could say as I pulled her close again and burried my face in her hair. Her perfect hair.

“I love you too. A lot. But aren’t you supposed to be at work love?”

“Screw work. I love you”

She just smiled and held me tighter. I pulled her off her feet making her laugh even more.

“You are so perfect. Your hair, your smile, your laugh, god your laugh. The way you treat people And even on your worst days. Your tears are perfect. Your heart is perfect. Your imperfections are perfect. All I could think about today were your eyes. Your perfect, watercolor, eyes.” I ranted unable to say how I felt. No words could describe it.

“Watercolor eyes? Where did you get that from?” She said looking at me happily.

“It doesn’t matter. I could never tell you enough how much you mean to me. I don’t say it enough. I can’t. But I do. God I do.”

He put her hands on my face. Holding my cheek like if she touched it to hard it would break. She pulled me in and our lips met. For a kiss so perfect, it almost beat every other.

——— ✍️

Be grateful for those watercolor eyes in your life. I feel like I have been writing negative lately and I want my childhood back please! So I wrote something sweet (hopefully)! I love you guys so much.

I wanted to do grey eyes because in my opinion, grey eyes are the prettiest things in the world. It is a weird obsession! But not as fun for others to read about!

Tried to get back into my description days because those memories>>>

Thank you all for being my watercolor eyes!

Didn’t edit🫣

I have spent my whole life Loving others "too much" More than myself More than life

I have loved to hard too intensely too invasively

But i don't think i have i believe the real issue is that my love language goes far too under appreciated far too often

Shakespeare wrote with so much passion Just as Michelangelo painted

Everyone love the artists that loves too much and too hard and too intensely

Because an artist must spend hours painting or writing One person To the point that they lose themselves Completely enamoured With the beauty Of their subject

We appreciate it when it comes from an artist but clearly no one In the real world

Wants to be loved like an artist's muse

“Stupid, stupid, stupid” I mutter slamming the car door closed.

“Stupid. It’s all stupid.” I scream at the top of my lungs.

I’m at a hill, a 10 minute drive away from my house in the pouring rain. It’s isolated, perfect.

I jump and scream. My body’s getting drenched but who cares at this point. Clearly not me.

I storm to the trunk of my car and pull out a golf club that the old owner left in it. I strike the ground as hard as possible. My hair is soaked, my brain spiralling out of control.

I scream once more and bash the wet grass a couple more times.

“Love is stupid” I shout, spinning around aggressively, the golf club still in my hand. “Everything’s stupid”

I throw the club down to the ground and run back to the car. I open the door and reach across the seat and rip out a small painting, pinned to the car.

It’s one of me and Georgie that I painted around two months ago. It took me like a week to finish. I slam the door shut again and stare at the image before me with fiery eyes.

I let it drop to the floor, re pick up the golf club and strike it. Over and over. The paint drips around in the painting, the rain reigniting it. It specifically covers my face with paint splotches, making mine odd and disproportionate. Whereas Georgie’s face is perfectly fine.

“Stupid” I shout into the nothingness.

The paper begins to disintegrate into the ground. Our faces both slowly fading. It’s like an eraser rubbing out our mistake.

My brain slows down and comes back to reality. Loud sobs exit my mouth, as I crouch down on the floor next to the painting.

“No, no, no” I murmur. I slowly sink down onto the wet grass I was hitting a few moments before. Tears fall down my cheeks like rain.

Why would he do that? I thought he actually liked me. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

^^^^^

Again, between Georgie and my OC. This is after the incident in season 5.

Never been chosen Never been it Never been asked If they can paint my portrait Inside I have colors but To others I’m gray I want them to see me but They look away Ok, I’ll stop It’s too sad But that’s because it’s true I just don’t have charisma And there’s nothing I can do If only there was something I could be That adds value to you But I’m not what you want Nothing you can use I’m so uninspiring It’s tiring I’m not a painting I’m nobody’s muse

It was an expected average Thursday of refining another memorial portrait. Either the family lost their photos in a natural disaster, or would like a colored version of the monochrome portrait. I've been painting realistic replicas for 48 years now -- and I'd say that no person would be able tell the difference between my painting and a color film. They call me the Undead da Vinci, and to be honest, I think it's a fitting description of my caliber as well as my job scope.

Well, that early morning after my cup of coffee, I brought up my task list. Next to tackle was Astera Colette. No photo, just the body in a casket. An young florist in east Belgium, no known family. I studied her facial features. Easy enough -- beautiful, smooth skin, symmetrical. I performed the usual - sketching the outlines, painting the undertones before layering on highlights and the defined membrane of the skin. It took me the average 5 hours, and by now the sun was at its high. Time for my late lunch. I stretched and headed over to the kitchen upstairs to prepare a chicken avocado sandwich and leftover tomato soup.

It's usually advised to leave a piece of work for a day to come back with fresh eyes. Well, I strolled back to the workshop downstairs and looked over at the casket. The sunlight reflected oddly against Astera's skin. I couldn't ascertain if they were colors, reflections, or fumes. Her lips seemingly formed a peaceful and joyful smile. I was drawn into feelings, scents, and memories that were definitely not my own. I shook my head and blinked hard to clear my vision. Looking around the room, the colors greyed in front of my eyes. The painting looked antiquated- old, colors worn, luminescence sucked dry and lifeless.

The portrait looked abysmal! I'm certain the paints and my skills were just as good as any other day. I went back to Astera, and was hit with a shock as if someone applied a defibrillator. Life and love came from within, and tears automatically formed in my eyes.