So I'm holed up in my closet this evening, hiding out from the world and smelling deeply of the paint fumes which barely escape the crack in the door, concealing me from the tribal going-ons in the house. I am using a color called 'blue velvet' and the color is to match a mural that I am going to paint inside the room, helping my friend to refurbish and make the house look more homey.
And as I am painting, I realize that I am painting over writing. The writing is actually measurements over the years of a young child named Cody. And here I am, washing color over writing, blotting over someone's history.
I'm of mixed thoughts of this. In one hand, I am helping someone else forge new memories in a place they bought to be their home, to raise their own child. On the other...I am obliterating someone else's memories of a place. It is both elating and pulling at the heart strings.
But I move like an automation, trying to make sure that the color is even, this cool blue as it lays over someone else's fading memory.
Time for the new.
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