So, there I was, staring at the ceiling. Again. It was one of those nights, you know? Brain buzzing, sleep just not happening. And then, out of nowhere, this urge just hit me: I needed to paint. Right then, at stupid o'clock in the morning. I haven't touched my paints in ages, probably years if I'm being honest. They were tucked away in a box, gathering dust in the back of the closet, a relic from a past life, almost.
Getting everything out felt like an archaeological dig. Seriously. I found my old acrylics, some brushes that were definitely worse for wear, and a sad-looking canvas I'd bought ages ago with grand ambitions that never quite materialized. The kitchen table became my makeshift studio. It was weirdly quiet, just the hum of the fridge and my own breathing. Not gonna lie, part of me thought, "What are you even doing, man?" But another, louder part was just eager to get started.
The Messy Middle
I didn't have a plan. Not really. Just started squeezing out some blues and blacks onto a paper plate I was using as a palette. Remembered how much I used to love just mixing colors. The first strokes felt clumsy. Super clumsy. My hand felt stiff, like I’d forgotten how to hold a brush properly. For a while there, it was looking like a disaster. A big, dark, muddy disaster. I almost gave up, thought about just chucking the whole thing in the bin and going back to wrestling with my duvet.
But then, something clicked. Maybe it was the silence, or the fact that there was no pressure. Nobody was going to see this mess but me. I started layering colors, dabbing with a sponge I found, even using my fingers a bit. It was liberating, actually. I wasn't trying to create a masterpiece. I was just... doing.
- Just me and the canvas.
- No expectations, which was nice for a change.
- A bit of a thrill, painting in the dead of night.
I think I was going for a night sky, maybe some abstract stars, a hint of a moon. It wasn't coming out like anything specific, more like a feeling. The colors started to blend in ways I didn't expect, some happy accidents, you know? It was slow. Took me a couple of hours, just lost in it. My back started to ache from hunching over the table, and my eyes were getting blurry.
Waking Up To It
When I finally decided to stop, my kitchen looked like a small paint bomb had gone off. My hands were covered in paint, there were smudges on the table (thankfully, it wiped off). I propped the canvas up against the wall and just stared at it. It wasn't great. Not by a long shot. Objectively, it was probably pretty bad. But it was mine. I made it. In the middle of the night, when I should have been sleeping.
Woke up the next morning, feeling surprisingly good. A bit tired, sure, but good. Went to look at the painting in the daylight. Yeah, still not winning any awards. But seeing it there, it was a reminder that sometimes you just gotta do the thing, whatever it is, even if it’s silly, even if it’s late, even if you’re not sure why. I think I might actually do it again. Maybe make a habit of these midnight paintings. Who knows?
