the deluded ones [#2]

feel

may 23rd, 2017

stories, they're written and created with care, but they are messes in the end.

exquisite, beautiful messes.

ink is spilt, papers are torn, words are crossed out, all to become one mess, one story of life.

a life is never perfect, so neither is its story. but every story speaks of an amazement from the moment of existence to the end of one. time changes the future; it creates messes and trauma in ways that were once unbeknownst to man.

but it also creates limitless opportunities to intertwine with and diverge from the path of others, some of whom you knew of before.

as it was with you and me, we shared similar stories from when we were young. our backgrounds, the illustrations of our stories' beginnings, used the same paints and brushes and designs. but time led us to disappear from each other's growing story.

but, yet, here we are again, overlapping each other's, as you say, more than we ever had back when we first made our mark on each other's backgrounds.

and i'm leaving my swirls on your story's illustrations as you're leaving your splatters on mine. our stories, they're artwork, like those of my closest friend when she uses her intricate hands to create elegance.

however, her work is filled with grace. ours is not. why?

because stories are messes. beautiful, exquisite messes, so our illustrations are a mixture of colors that create a complicated splash of creation.

and it's magnificent. but, here on out, there is so much more to be added. there are blank spots on our canvases, on our story-filled journals.

i just hope that the marks we make on each other are never covered up; they can fade like all colors do, but, as long as they never disappear, our stories will remain with our intertwined times, our wondrously complex times.