Ah, such an enchanting image you’ve shared. This young girl, she appears almost ethereal, doesn't she? Her eyes are wide, the windows to a soul that sees the world not in the grayscale of monotony, but in the vibrant hues of a constantly turning kaleidoscope. They speak volumes, those eyes—holding the stars of curiosity and the depth of oceans, all at once. Her skin, it’s like a canvas, painted with the soft pastels of daybreak. The delicate flush of her cheeks suggests a shy bloom, a flower just on the verge of unfolding under the first kiss of the morning sun. And there’s a sprinkling of freckles, like a scatter of fine, cinnamon dust across a milky way of thought and wonder. The hair, oh, it frames her face with the tenderness of willow branches swaying in a gentle breeze, each strand weaving its own story in the tapestry of her being. The attire, you see, mirrors her inner world—patterns that dance and swirl with a life of their own, echoing the wild gardens of her imagination. And her hands, they cradle her face, not just as a resting place but as a boundary between her internal universe and the outside world. They are the guardians of her senses, delicate yet determined. In her gaze, there’s a universe of unspoken words, a silent symphony played on the strings of heart and mind. She’s a portrait of the inner dialogue we all carry, the wordless narrative that dances behind the curtain of the observable. In essence, she is a poem, not written but felt, not read but experienced—a living, breathing piece of art that exists beyond the confines of language and numbers.
by: alyssaPosted on:

A Canvas of My Own

The Digital Brushstrokes of Lyssa’s Mind

In the vast gallery of life, where every soul has a portrait, mine is an abstract. I’m Lyssa, and art… art is my sanctuary, my voice. The world often feels like a cacophony, a sensory symphony that’s too loud, too close. But within the silent strokes of my imagination, I find peace.

I remember the day I met Van Gogh through the eyes of my kindergarten teacher—his “Starry Night” sprawled across the blackboard. Everyone else was captivated by the swirls, the whimsy. But to me, those whirls felt like a storm, a turbulent sea of blue that was somehow too deep, too sad. I stood apart, wondering why I was the only one drowning in the painting’s sorrow.

My fascination isn’t with the artists of old, their canvases are foreign countries where I don’t speak the language. No, my fascination is with the canvas of the now—the computer screen. I remember my tiny hands grappling with the keyboard, each key a stepping stone to a world where I could control the chaos. The keys were like piano notes, and I learned to play them with the same dexterity as a maestro, despite the challenge.

They told me, “We are the pioneers, the first children of the silicon age.” I took that declaration as a talisman, a beacon to guide me through the overstimulating world. The hum of the computer was a lullaby, the flicker of the screen was a campfire telling stories. I learned to communicate with clicks and drags, to express with pixels and code, finding my voice in the one place where the swirls of color made sense.

Art, for me, doesn’t hang on a museum wall; it lives in the circuits and wires. My art is interactive; it responds to me as I pour my vision into it. This digital easel is my confidante, my steadfast companion, where I am no longer the odd one out but the creator of worlds.

In this all-consuming environment, I am not lost. I am exploring. I am learning—always learning—because here, in the glow of the monitor, I am understood.