The sunlight, soft and bright with the tinge of yellow brilliance, poured through the clear window of Matthew's modest, yet cozy, loft. Matthew was sitting crossed-leg near the window on the hardwood floor, busying himself with a new project laid out in front of him. With no plans made, no errands to run, and almost no one to talk to as of today, Matthew took to delving in his new project.

Laid out in front of him on the floor was a paint set: jars of paint, brushes of different sizes, a palette, and a cup of cleaning water for said brushes sat neatly around the canvas- now already covered with slabs of colors. Matthew took all of his concentration into making a not-quite-so masterpiece, his hair tied back into a ponytail and remaining loose hair clipped back, a good decision he made since he already has little blotches of reddish-brown wiped on his forehead. So far, Matthew was enjoying himself; painting something equivalent to a doodle during a conference offered a peaceful distraction as well as something to do. And yet...

Matthew paused and set his brush down, picking up the work-in-progress and frowning at it slightly. The point of taking up this hobby was to find a way to express himself on the blank canvas, to just let it go and go- how'd Alfred put it?- "go freaking wild" with the paints. Just paint freely, Matthew was told, but it feels not free at all. The colors mixed and swirled and formed shapes, sure, but it felt so...controlled. It felt too carefully crafted to avoid messing up the canvas, and the way the lighter colors "followed" the darker colors in the swirls...

Matthew sighed and laid the canvas back down. Bored and uncomfortable with the once-serene silence, Matthew stood up and walked to the iPod speakers. He turned his device on, set it on shuffle, and turned it on a moderate volume, taking the remote control to the iPod speaker with him before returning to his seat. Now that he saw the many flaws in his work, Matthew didn't feel up to completing this failed project, but he wasn't one to leave something he worked hard on incomplete, so he picked up his brush as the song began to play.

As Matthew dipped his brush into the paint palette, he listened to the soft acoustic guitar that played in the beginning, and the soft voice of a young woman, in a tone and gentleness that was carefree and reassuring, sang.

Three little birds sat on the window

And they told me I don't need to worry

"Huh," Matthew hummed thoughtfully as he added strokes to the painting. He didn't remember downloading this song, but it sounded decent enough. In fact, it was "decent" enough to get him to start swaying from side to side in tune to the song's rhythm and lyrics; he started to bounce a bit in his seat as the song picked up tempo.

Matthew was starting to lose himself in the song; he didn't even notice that he was moving steadily more, turning up the volume little by little, bobbing his head, increasing his brush strokes and adding strokes where he felt they should and mixing colors and leaving the colors that mixed by accident there because somehow it felt right, like a "happy accident" that portrayed more of Matthew than the controlled-feeling, perfect brush strokes. Matthew dipped his brush into the water to clean it for another color when he saw that the water was dirty. He stood up, set the song playing on repeat because why not, and went to the kitchen sink nearby to get a fresh cup, his hips shaking from side to side. And he didn't make it back to his painting.

Completely taken over by the song, Matthew was dancing. When he reached the open area, halfway towards his painting, he just started to move freely. He stepped and twirled and bounced and swirled, not caring that the water was spilling everywhere on the floor or the possible mold that may grow later from it. Matthew was feeling it, the joy of children just playing hopscotch and jump rope on the sidewalk, the sweetness of freshly-brewed tea with a hint of mint, the peace of bike-riding to a park, and the beauty, the wonderful beauty of a meadow of daisies that he felt himself dancing in, under the sunlight as beautiful as the one he danced in in his loft.

Girl, put your records on

Tell me your favorite song

You go ahead let your hair down

Sapphire faded jeans

You go and get your dreams

You go ahead let your hair down~!

Matthew hooked his finger into the scrunchie tying his hair back and slid the scrunchie off, freeing his blond strands and shaking them loose. And it felt so good. He was feeling free, light, unrestricted by his own silent nature, and these uncertainties and depressive notions he had? Dissolving as quickly as snow under the sun. This is what he needed as a person, a reminder that it isn't all bad and that he needs to let himself be happy and worry-free a little more.

He was getting into the fourth play of the song when he saw the painting still waiting to be completed on the floor. Walking melodically to it, he set the nearly-empty cup down with the rest of the paint kit and picked up the canvas once more to look at the progress. The thing was a mess, albeit a mess that was still distinguishable: the swirls that overlayed each other still followed each other, the colors mixed in what looked like puke in some areas, but still didn't come together as a compete eye sore, and the shapes- the splotches few and far on the painting- popped out and gave the painting itself the added eye-catching effect.

Matthew picked up his brush and continued where he left off, letting himself go on the canvas just as he did on his makeshift "dance floor" moments ago, singing along to the song as he did.

The sunlight from the window seems a little brighter now.

So, what does a writer who has a load of fanfics to update so they won't become "dead fanfics" and a livestream to watch do?

Why, she writes another story of course! But in all honesty, I really just need to get back into writing and using this account some more, so I guess some good came from this complete waste of time? :3

I hope you like!