I lost myself, one day, in infinite hues of misty blues. When I finally emerged from my trance, dry-eyed, blinking, my world felt both softer and brighter, as though each layer of subtle colour on the canvas, each paintbrush stroke, each tiny detail, had emerged from a throbbing heat deep within my chest.

‘Infinite Blue’ convinced me I was an artist.

Pride bubbled through my veins. I stepped back and smiled at my painting, my smile turning into a grin as I realised I was delighted with myself.

I was worthy. I would no longer think of myself as a dabbler, a canvas-splatterer, an imposter. I would no longer let my inner voice mock me or allow myself to be hurt by people who simpered and fawned in my face, then scoff-swivelled to spew nasties about people no talent but with friends in stellar places.

If I got lucky, well, good for me! I dared to try, allowed myself to play. I persevered because the process brought me so much joy.

One day, someone found my joy infectious, and said yes.