Another Broken Scene

She held her paintbrush. She felt the warmth of the wood against her cold fingers. She knew she needed to paint something- her emotions told her so. Her mind wandered. Nature? Nah. Too mainstream. People? Nah. Why paint those who left you? Things? Too symbolic. She wasn't able to think of anything. She stared at her blank canvas. Think, think. Still nothing. She was supposed to feel something but she felt nothing, as if the world can crumble and she wouldn't care. She dipped her brush to the rosy colours but she wasn't able to get herself to paint on the canvas. She then dipped her paintbrush to the dark colours, still the same. She felt frustrated. What a useless artist. Then she dipped and dipped and dipped it again. Finally, she gave up. She let go of her paintbrush and just when she stood up, the paintbrush tipped down and the water spilled on her canvas. She stared blankly. She smiled bitterly. Here's what she got- nothing. And a mess. Oh, it suited her. Cause she was nothing but a mess.