"Humans, humans are just too unique," she started, "we start as if we are a blank, empty white canvas. Just sitting in the corner, waiting for our first cry to happen so a tiny splash of paint will scribble across the layers of white, coloring in our screams and smiles. And as the years taint our eyes and we get influenced, by our bitter tomorrows and endless sorrows, the shades get darker and the edges begin to curl towards the center of the canvas. We are filled with bottomless doubt, skepticism reigns supreme; we begin to have disillusioning, countless ill-conceived dreams. And we don't even know this. We don't know that we are ruining a perfect canvas, once bare of any sorrows. We don't know that we are the ones that dip the paintbrush into the dark mixes of paint and take harsh, cruel strokes at the canvas. At our life."
"That once used to be 'blank canvas' gets filled up to the edge, and even off the edges, with different marks and broken crayons, glitter, every single thing. We soon realize that the canvas can no longer hold so much dark paint onto itself. It's a burden that the canvas has to carry because we are weak. We think we are invincible with sly smiles on our faces, but we aren't. We are just human. And once we realize this, the canvas gets lighter. The shades become brighter and you feel as if your body has been aching to breathe, for just once. Your heart begins to untuck the words it kept hidden for so long. The canvas soon begins to influence another "canvas" and when we are about to take our last breath, when our hearts are about to beat for the last time, when our voices whisper so quietly, we truly open up our eyes and find a mural, a museum, all drawn every second of our lives. This is when we know we are humans."
YOU ARE READING
therapy
Short Story"they told us that we needed therapy, as if medication and tainted words could fix broken toys."
