Frivolous colors splashed on the canvas creating a massive explosion of emotions hidden but burning under my skin. The black hole within me decreases in size with each stroke of brush; breathing becomes easier with each expression of color or shape. Nothing is clear; no intention is applied on the oil painting just plain frustration and anger. Being engrossed in my painting silences the voices in my head; they become a mere buzz that is eventually reduced into eerie silence. I don’t know what scares me more, the voices or the silence. I can’t handle being alone and yet all I want is to be alone. I start breathing heavily as my strokes become more and more aggressive and anxiety creeps up to me. I work harder and my colors change from brighter to darker colors, and the hole in my heart grows steeper. My art is my voice but I speak a language no one understands so I’m still unheard. I scream my pain and frustration through the colors I have but I’m not allowed to be seen or heard. After all I am privileged, who am I to complain, who am I to break free of the chains surrounding me and who am I to even believe I’m chained at the first place. So I break free only through my canvases.