Being alone is like art

The first year:
There's an empty piece of paper in front of you. You can paint it with any color you like, you can choose the style you prefer, you can do anything!

The second year:
You really start enjoying the colors you chose. Paint everything red, yellow, green! It's pure pleasure.

The third year:
You take two steps back to really see the picture. Damn! There's just to much red. And I don't even like red that much. It doesnt fulfill the painting. It's just a consolation.

The fourth year:
You're still looking at the painting, wondering what happend to it. What changed. You really want to add a few new colors and you even try. But nothing really sticks. Nothing fits.

The fifth year:
You're just so sick of the fucking colors. But there's this tiny beacon of hope that maybe one day you're gonna make a perfect painting for yourself.

The sixth year:
Fuck painting! I'm gonna be a cook!