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A Piste. A Paintbrush. A Point

“Un, deux trois, aller!” the referee calls.

My legs move forward. Quickly. Methodically. Gracefully -- almost

Like a ballerina striding across the stage

My stage, however, is not a dance floor

It is metal. Durable. And incredibly scratched from the aftermath of vicious attacks.

It is a canvas torn with the points of paintbrushes that have come before. It is --

The mighty fencing piste

Fencing is an art --

The point of my sword, a paintbrush, gliding smoothly

In hopes of getting a point, to feel --

The rush, the thrill, the excitement, the joy

To feel the tidal wave wash over me

As a painter is free, their art a mirror of themselves, so too am I -- my mind, my emotions,

Me

My white jacket and pants is not simply white, but splattered --

With bursts of colour, memories, defeats and victories

I am one with this art. It is me, and I, it.

Now to move on to the next masterpiece...

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Making others more physically active, one step at a time

© 2018 by The Active Mental Health Initiative Team

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