Concerns of an artist

Could there have been a better time to go about this, this wonderfully aching first love? Or should I have kept my eyes down, asphyxiated my desires to open up to all that is awaiting me in my potentially colorful life…

Should I have saved this for later? For when I have accumulated enough wisdom to make such a decision that'd change the way I see things forever? Never would I ever (nor anyone, I believe) wish to see the sculpture we've created crack, crumble then no longer recognizable by the remains of its ruins, the rest blown away by fate's wind…

I can only be determined to challenge the breeze, ready with my restoration tools to replace and make new what once was. Yes, though it wouldn't be the exact original state, that's what love is. A breaking down and building up, on repeat. The ultimate goal always, to create something beautiful, worth the years, worth the tears, and perhaps worth the wait?

Now that my eyes have been adjusted to these new colors, turning back is quite the difficult feat. And so with this current palette I've acquired, it's enough(some may say lacking, but). I can scrape, fold, mix the pigments that I have to create masterpiece-like memories despite the chance that my love would come near with a blade to drag, stab, twist it into my beating canvas. I would have no choice but to be the artist that I am and use the new colors from that experience to paint with my damp eyelashes, then dry, then mascara-ed. See, unique no matter what. But it would be so achingly wonderful to go about this first love, my whole life the best time, until my eyesight gives me no other shades but a blinding white.