Watching those around me, I feel as if they all have a set of painted colors on a canvas, one for each part of their life, all set together, uniformed. That they're all lines, circles and squares, arranged in some intricate way that makes them different in their own ways, but similar to those around them. I, on the other hand, feel like a canvas that has been painted in a hurry, in one simple swipe. Where the painter has placed a multitude of colors on her hand, then without any careful thought, pressed the paint daubed hand against the rough surface of the canvas, and smeared it about. I feel as if the painter had no care as to whether purples sat between oranges and yellows, while the reds fought for dominance against the cooler greens and blues, that she didn't care how much black seemed to overshadow the whole painting, and drive out the faint veins of white that fought frantically to make an impression. I feel that all of this within the painting makes me into who, and what I am. I am my mother's child, but not. I am someone that follows no specific mold that society has set for young women. I am a painter. I am simply a blur, hidden within a world that has come to a standstill with accepting something of difference. I am myself.|
Yes, I wrote that. Surprised? I was myself.