I don't even know who the hell I even am anymore. Humans all start off as an empty canvas. You're supposed to paint art on canvases but I don't see how so much hatred and evil could ever be called art. Regardless of that, I can feel the forces of life painting my fate on me now. Sometimes the strokes are soft and harmless and leave a beautifully intricate line on my canvas. Other days, life is careless, and harshly whips paint across my soul, leaving blotches of it over the beautiful lines, forever being lost under an ocean of darkness. That's all that life will ever be. Good days and bad days. However, there are some days when life decides to take a break. No paintbrush ever traces the surface of my canvas and that is that. One day, the final picture will be completed. The final stroke shall take place and life will take a step back, admire the work of art that is you and me, and just as quickly as it placed us on a stand, it will remove us and we will never be painted on again. Life is over, and we are dead. Those that remember us, can see the final picture again but we will never be able to see our final product. It's the same feeling of never being able to look at yourself without a reflection. Humans are like art. Our lives are never admired or analyzed while we were being created, only until we are done. Life works in mysterious ways and the painting of fate will forever be one of them.
