There I Sit

There I sit. Staring at the perfect portraits pinned along the walls of a classroom full of life. Surrounded by voice, passion, and value, layered like acrylic smeared on a palette. The easel stands tall, proud, and patient. Covered in emotion, as it represents yesterday's feelings. The brush lies still, waiting for the gentle stroke of the hand to touch its calm bristles. Charcoal dust coats their fingertips, as they glide it against the canvas, blending in the perfect hazy effect. The clock ticked louder by the second. However, I snap into reality. And I am simply just sitting there. Disrupted by the loud , unbearing noises coming from the sink. The sudden splash of water. Not a sight of gentle rinsing, nor careful cleaning.  As paint brushes are being groomed, destroyed , smashed, and stripped away of their once beautiful colors. The tools that shape beauty are now mutilated for what is called “clean up.” How can anyone have no care in the world, to understand that these tools carry the weight of dreams into existence? The whirlpool of life, drained, swallowed, and carried into the pipes. As if their beauty meant nothing at all.