White tulip

After finishing this painting, I pushed my chair back and stared at the flowers. A question came to me: If our soul had a color, what would it be? Surely not this pure translucent white – even though it should be, even though it was like that to begin with.

These past few days, I’ve felt a whirlwind of emotions. It’s been a long time since I last felt this fragile. And then I realized – maybe it’s because I saw something too clearly. Sometimes, knowing the truth in its raw form can hurt more than vaguely guessing at it. It’s not heartbreak, really. It’s regret. Regret that the flower isn’t as pure as I had hoped. Or simply put – when we look life straight in the face, we wish it weren’t so ugly.

But flowers, like people, are born pure. It’s the storms of life that change their color. The soul, once stained, rarely returns to its original clarity. And then… a flower’s life ends.

From now on, I think I’ll paint more white flowers – as a gentle reminder to protect that tender, untainted part of the soul.