Enough.

It was hard to contain all the thoughts in her head.

Bijou would paint something that came to mind then immediately throw it in the trash upon finishing. What was the point of keeping it if it could never satisfy her? She would try again, a new canvas. Just another sorrowful painting, where it would meet with the rest. Maybe it was with the colors; they didn't quite pop that brilliantly. Perhaps was it the trees? They were crooked, but are they not meant to be? Why was it hard to accept that nature itself could also be imperfect?

Hours went by, Bijou stayed within the slums of her mind, pressing onward. She hated everything she painted, but she insisted that maybe she'll strike gold eventually. There has to be something. Next to her was her phone that would just repeat podcasts of motivation. It hammered her soul to continue. How could she call herself an artist if she did not paint?

There were fine brushstrokes that pleased her. The colorful mixture of pinks and oranges, dabbled with reds and blues. She painted the sky so passionately as if she were her own god designing the blueprints of another world quite outside her reach. In her head, she wanted to make the gods jealousy.

In her craft, she wanted to be beautiful. Her flesh couldn't amount to her work, but then again, her body was neglected for the craft. It often left her wondering why she couldn't press on. There would be days where she sat in her room, painting, without going out to eat or drink. She couldn't bring herself away; she had to finish. If she can be satisfied with one painting, it would be enough.

One after the other, she worked. Maybe this time, she thought. Maybe it will be gorgeous. Yet to no avail, she tossed a piece. Scraps off grand course meals. Nothing to savor.

Bijou grew tired and could not understand why. The day was slowly consumed by the moon, and she didn't even realize it. Her thoughts gnawed on her endlessly; she was a slave to them. Anything to appease them, to drown them out. She carefully caressed the water with her paintbrush to capture its smoothness. Looking at her painting now, it almost seemed like it was moving. It could just be the lack of sleep.

She glanced more and more at it, feeling a small surge of pride in her work. She stared because she feared that if she saw anything else, envy would creep into her heart and make her hate what she created. It was such a sad thought, wasn't it? To have put your whole heart into something only to have someone else's work capture your heart effortlessly. It was a betrayal to your talent. A betrayal to your hardship.

Let it be this one, she cried. She wanted to love what she made. Only her love alone, but she knew that was never going to be enough. Her thoughts crumbled as she thought, will anyone else like this? Will anyone else admire this as much as I do? The small smile she had looking at her work slowly faltered. Her thoughts, always brutal and could continue strong unlike her body, told her no. They told her they were never good. They told her there was so many flaws in it that no one would even bother.

So in the scraps they went. By the very end of her day, she grabbed all the pieces and threw them out to the trash. I can't stand the thought of anyone looking at my failure, she thought. How humiliating would that be?

She got into bed and sobbed. Her pillow pushed to her cheek as she wept. She wished so much that she was enough. Maybe tomorrow, she insisted, I will learn to love what I have to offer.