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Description
Creative Essay
Paint Your Wings

“Paint your own wings”
That's what my mother had told me once. I had come crying to her because I had been bullied in school and she had taken me gently into her arms, listening patiently before telling me that simple sentence. It stopped my crying all right, that was for sure, as I looked up at her in confusion and asked what she meant. Smiling she had told me that deep down inside I know what it means, all I had to do was look.
For years I always wondered what she meant. That wasn't the only time she told me to paint my wings, never telling me why. Multiple times in several situation I got the same phrase and each time, when I asked, I got the same response. I knew she couldn't mean for me to physically paint my wings, what good would that do? And humans don't have wings anyway, at least not any I had seen. So why? Why was she so insistent on this one phrase?
It wasn't until I was older, when I had a dream, that I finally understood. It started in a dark place, surrounded by masses of grey beings, all walking to and fro, none showing any features to distinguish them by. I felt tiny and insignificant not to mention lost. Sitting at the edge of the crowd I watched them blur by, merging together as they moved, becoming like one of those videos of busy streets that I'd seen at school and on TV.
After what seemed like eternity, staring into the endless mass, a point of colour appeared, moving towards me. It gradually grew and grew as I watched in stunned silence until it materialised into my mother. Every detail of her stood out and each colour was vibrant in contrast to the grey blank slates of people I had seen previously. She seemed to glow as she smiled at me but what I really noticed about her were the beautiful feathered wings folded gracefully at her back as she bent down and held out her hand to me in silence. She noticed me staring and slowly unfolded them and, as I watched, the feathers shimmered all the colours of the rainbow, seeming to reflect just as much of her heart as her eyes did.
Taking my hand she led me through the crowd towards a door and slowly came to a halt. She still hadn't said a word and I didn't dare to speak should I break the dream. Opening the door she gestured me through but didn't follow, bending down to my height and holding my hand in hers as I turned round to look at her. Then she said it again, paint your own wings, no context, no reason, the only thing she said throughout the whole dream, and closed the door leaving me alone.
I considered panicking and calling out to her but instead I looked down at the hand she had held. There was a paintbrush there, and as I stared at it realisation began to dawn on me and, holding it in front of me, and began to paint. It was like painting with my heart, with each stroke thousands of colours appeared and spread making more and more wonderful creations. They flowed like rainbows and exploded like fireworks creating magnificent structures and majestic beasts. I began to run, laughing, as a whole new world sprouted from my brush. It grew and grew, seeming to be like the world I live in but with more vibrant colours and more imaginative designs. Friends and characters I had created ran along beside me and worlds I had created in my imagination appeared on the horizon, spreading out as far as the eye could see. I was so mesmerised I didn't even notice the cliff edge until I ran off it, flying off at great speed and yet I kept running. Looking down I saw the vast expanse of a waterfall materialising below me and fairies at the pool at the bottom, it was everything I loved about life and all my interests combined into one place.
It was then that I panicked; thinking I was falling until I felt a tug at my bag and looked up. Paint was streaming from the brush to create wings on my back, similar to my mums and yet completely different. They were smaller of course and had a pattern to them unique to me, swirling and intertwining with the feathers and shimmering all my favourite colours, spreading out and keeping me aloft. I stared at the colours and shapes then looked out over the new land I had created, the inner workings of my mind spread out before me, and seeing it reflected in my wings as I hovered in the air. “Paint you're own wings” my mum had told me; and so I had.
I woke up after that with a jolt, staring up at the ceiling and thinking over my dream that stayed so clearly in my head. Slowly I got out of bed and crossed my room over to my mirror. Looking in the reflective glass I could see my usual face staring back with my crumpled pyjamas and plain brown hair, not very interesting, but if I looked closer and thought a bit harder then I could still see my wings shimmering faintly at my back.
From that day I always looked out for peoples wings, some are small but still have potential and some are large and impressive, but all show what type of person you are. I feel sorry for those who still haven't found their wings but it's only a matter of time and I’ve always admired those that belong to those brilliantly creative people, they always seem the most impressive. I know now what my mum meant all those times she told me to paint my wings, be yourself and create you're own wings unique to you, you might not have fantastic colourful ones like some people but they're still yours and it's who you are.

Description
Creative Essay
Paint Your Wings

“Paint your own wings”
That's what my mother had told me once. I had come crying to her because I had been bullied in school and she had taken me gently into her arms, listening patiently before telling me that simple sentence. It stopped my crying all right, that was for sure, as I looked up at her in confusion and asked what she meant. Smiling she had told me that deep down inside I know what it means, all I had to do was look.
For years I always wondered what she meant. That wasn't the only time she told me to paint my wings, never telling me why. Multiple times in several situation I got the same phrase and each time, when I asked, I got the same response. I knew she couldn't mean for me to physically paint my wings, what good would that do? And humans don't have wings anyway, at least not any I had seen. So why? Why was she so insistent on this one phrase?
It wasn't until I was older, when I had a dream, that I finally understood. It started in a dark place, surrounded by masses of grey beings, all walking to and fro, none showing any features to distinguish them by. I felt tiny and insignificant not to mention lost. Sitting at the edge of the crowd I watched them blur by, merging together as they moved, becoming like one of those videos of busy streets that I'd seen at school and on TV.
After what seemed like eternity, staring into the endless mass, a point of colour appeared, moving towards me. It gradually grew and grew as I watched in stunned silence until it materialised into my mother. Every detail of her stood out and each colour was vibrant in contrast to the grey blank slates of people I had seen previously. She seemed to glow as she smiled at me but what I really noticed about her were the beautiful feathered wings folded gracefully at her back as she bent down and held out her hand to me in silence. She noticed me staring and slowly unfolded them and, as I watched, the feathers shimmered all the colours of the rainbow, seeming to reflect just as much of her heart as her eyes did.
Taking my hand she led me through the crowd towards a door and slowly came to a halt. She still hadn't said a word and I didn't dare to speak should I break the dream. Opening the door she gestured me through but didn't follow, bending down to my height and holding my hand in hers as I turned round to look at her. Then she said it again, paint your own wings, no context, no reason, the only thing she said throughout the whole dream, and closed the door leaving me alone.
I considered panicking and calling out to her but instead I looked down at the hand she had held. There was a paintbrush there, and as I stared at it realisation began to dawn on me and, holding it in front of me, and began to paint. It was like painting with my heart, with each stroke thousands of colours appeared and spread making more and more wonderful creations. They flowed like rainbows and exploded like fireworks creating magnificent structures and majestic beasts. I began to run, laughing, as a whole new world sprouted from my brush. It grew and grew, seeming to be like the world I live in but with more vibrant colours and more imaginative designs. Friends and characters I had created ran along beside me and worlds I had created in my imagination appeared on the horizon, spreading out as far as the eye could see. I was so mesmerised I didn't even notice the cliff edge until I ran off it, flying off at great speed and yet I kept running. Looking down I saw the vast expanse of a waterfall materialising below me and fairies at the pool at the bottom, it was everything I loved about life and all my interests combined into one place.
It was then that I panicked; thinking I was falling until I felt a tug at my bag and looked up. Paint was streaming from the brush to create wings on my back, similar to my mums and yet completely different. They were smaller of course and had a pattern to them unique to me, swirling and intertwining with the feathers and shimmering all my favourite colours, spreading out and keeping me aloft. I stared at the colours and shapes then looked out over the new land I had created, the inner workings of my mind spread out before me, and seeing it reflected in my wings as I hovered in the air. “Paint you're own wings” my mum had told me; and so I had.
I woke up after that with a jolt, staring up at the ceiling and thinking over my dream that stayed so clearly in my head. Slowly I got out of bed and crossed my room over to my mirror. Looking in the reflective glass I could see my usual face staring back with my crumpled pyjamas and plain brown hair, not very interesting, but if I looked closer and thought a bit harder then I could still see my wings shimmering faintly at my back.
From that day I always looked out for peoples wings, some are small but still have potential and some are large and impressive, but all show what type of person you are. I feel sorry for those who still haven't found their wings but it's only a matter of time and I’ve always admired those that belong to those brilliantly creative people, they always seem the most impressive. I know now what my mum meant all those times she told me to paint my wings, be yourself and create you're own wings unique to you, you might not have fantastic colourful ones like some people but they're still yours and it's who you are.