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Questions and Crisis.

He wasn't going to trace the paste over his cheeks.

It was dawn, and we both stood with breath held, in the middle of a forest far from home. I could feel dark droplets dripping down my cheeks, as if a colour could shed a tear, knowing I would not wish to cry for myself. And still, he stood; blank faced and confused, holding my world in his hands and never accepting the world as his own.

"Come on, it's too messy," he put the paste down on the grass, "we're nowhere near soap, and look at you!" He did not know. He did not know what shame I felt, as if I had stood naked before him and offered myself as a prize, yet he did not know.

"it was a silly game anyway." I didn't wipe the paste off my face still; I walked by his side that day, pretending all the while that he had returned my silly gesture and understood. Could it be wrong to pretend this? I wanted to ask someone, but the only one there was him, and he wasn't even there.

Now, I stood by a window. So much had changed, and somehow nothing had changed at the same time. A stranger had taken me into a room of zigzagging floors, giant metal boxes growled and hissed outside, waiting for me to join them. Yet I was still inside that forest. While my face presented clean, I could still feel the crying colour on my cheeks.

"this wasn't meant to happen," the stranger smiled at me, "I'm sorry about all the stairs, there was just not other place to do this picture." He laughed as if he was brand new, as if he had never been scorned, "sorry, I forgot to ask, what is your name?"

"Does it matter? We're just painting a picture and then I'll probably never see you again." He lifted his eyebrows at me in shock.

"Don't be so negative," he teased, "I'm Zack." He held out his hand, a sign of friendship and acceptance.

"That's a very nice name," I turned from him and set some paper down on a desk. Friendship was love, acceptance was love and love was an end. He pretended not to notice, as if his hand had not yet been extended and I had not turned.

Together we turned the white sheet into a rainbow, and I ignored the screaming colours, knowing that such rainbow colour could only be fake, and traitors to the paper. Yet, I was mesmerised by the pattern of his hand. His soft, firm fingers plashed with so many worlds, even the fake ones.

"Why do you paint?" The words tumbled from my lips, and I could only permit them to escape.

"Why do I paint?" He played with the question, repeating it to himself. "That's the first thing you've ever said to me that hasn't been a stiff response to a question of mine, do you realize that?" I sighed and became silent again, "wait, wait, wait," he spoke with an apologetic tone, reaching out to me, "I'll answer you. Painting is... art." He paused for a moment.

"But why do you do it? I know it is art."

"I paint because it is art," he persisted, "art is the most immediate way to become close to others. Every stroke of paint, tells you who the person was, or what they felt or what they knew, anything and everything about them."

"You sound so sure," I though back to the forest, and it saddened me.

Perhaps I never knew him, the one I loved. I had never seen his art; there had never been a stroke of colour on his cheek to see. There was nothing to see.

"I am sure." He said succinctly. He reached over, his coloured rainbow hand held mine tightly. It was the most beautiful hand I had ever seen, but it could not be real. The colours were all fake; his skin could never be that beautiful without such colour, could it?

It was dark outside, and this man who I did not know, held my hand in a way that those who knew me, had never attempted. All I could do was stare, blank faced and confused. Listening to the rain pelt outside, he looked at me as if he knew. As if I had stood naked before him and he had seen it all.

"Come outside with me," he stood, never letting go of my hand, not for a second.

"Outside?" I frowned at him, "it's so wet though, we'll get soaked and it's to

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