Lying on my bed, I looked around. Nothing but white. Blank walls. Empty shelves. So bland.
So I got up. I grabbed a pencil. And I began to draw. I drew for hours. Those hours turned to days and months. And I was done. With the outline anyway. I stood back and couldn't quite tell what it was. The lines were barely noticeable. If someone were to walk in, they'd never know unless they stood close enough.
So I ventured out. I went to buy paint and paint is what I did. For 2 and a half years. I painted every inch until white was nonexistent itself. Some corners were filled with realistic tones and shadowing, mimicking life. Others were bold and abstract with colours that didn't quite make sense but seemed to fall in place with no borders to separate the two styles.
People came to see. First my mom and dad. The people closest to me. And then a few friends. Soon everyone came by to see the masterpiece that decorated my walls. Marveled at its beauty.
But don't you see? I didn't draw. I never even picked up a brush. This is all a metaphor. The blank canvas that I called my walls represents my life. My depressing past life. The outline is my planning. Preparing myself. The paint and the completion was my finale. The beauty of it all. Everyone saw the difference. My change in character.
I'm no longer bland. I am bold.
I am no longer a blank canvas.
