Mother managed to buy me some more paint brushes, along with one or two drawing books and a pencil. This, of course, broadened my range of expression and allowed me to have a greater choice of subjects. After the first few weeks of uncertainty and awkwardness, I settled down contentedly with my new pastime. I painted every day upstairs in the back bedroom, completely by myself. I was changing. I didn't know it then, but I had found a way to be happy again and to forget some of the things that had made me unhappy. Above all I learned to forget myself. I didn't miss going out with my brothers, for I had something to keep my mind active, something to make each day a thing to look forward to. I would sit on the floor for hours, holding the brush between my toes, my right leg curled up under my left, my arms held tightly at my sides, hands clenched. All my paint and brushes were around me, and I would get Mother or Father to pin the drawing paper to the floor with tacks to keep it keep it steady. It looked like a very awkward position, with my head almost between my knees and my back crooked, but I painted all my best pictures this way, with the wooden floor as my only easel .  Slowly I began to recover from my earlier depression. I had a feeling of pure joy while I painted, a feeling I had never experienced before and which seemed almost to lift me above myself. According to the writer, the best thing about painting was that  _  .
.it made him feel happy it brought back sweet memories it was easy and pleasant to learn it could help him kill time