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it is impossible to think of a vigorous version of myself. there isn't one. i've never seen the good side of me. there isn't one. dullness was given to me at birth. no color. i'm supposed to create my own colors. but with what canvas? what paint? my mind is paper and a stranger owns the brushes. no one knows what they're drawing or coloring or sketching or painting because there is nothing of mine to get inspired off of. i am only here to be reminded of what not to become. my feet feel heavy in their own shoes today and will turn light tomorrow. the artist is switched each day. i do not have the correct definition of who i am. only outsiders seeing my skin from the inside can depict the act of my persona.
