As I try to identify the colors, I stop. I do not see the colors presented to me. Painting by numbers should be immediate I think. I stop and contemplate what I said. I stop and take a drink and think why should I pick up a paintbrush and paint a color that has been given to me by another inside of predetermined numbers.
The page remains blank as I keep thinking which way I should grab the brush. I take it in my left hand, and it feels fearful. I change to my right, and it seems to institutionalize. The canvas sits right in front of me, but the colors continue to deceive each and every figure. I cannot see the colors that have been displayed before the supervised numbers.
Is it the picture I cannot see or is it the color? Whatever way I choose to grab the question I realize my right hand and my left-hand hold no power. The colors hold the influence. I contemplate once more and reacquaint myself with the empty canvas. The colors I choose predetermines which picture I wish to paint, not the fictitious numbers.
The colors are so vibrant now that I can help but to paint. I feel joy as the brush guides my hand. One by one the numbers start to disappear as I stare into the sweet sunshine radiating from the canvas. With complementary colors, my brush is ready to paint a picture inside of my words and outside of absolute numbers.