the observant painting

suffering alone

"You are a work of art the things you have been through make you more valuable"

But I'm not. I feel more like a piece of art that was created by a broken bone, painted by some old brushes which the paint wasn't removed or was never removed from its bristles, my colors are so clear and soft yet so dark and matte. No one knows what's behind this "piece of art" but me... Death, heart breaks were some of the causes of this artwork, THEY caused me: I was born from the pain he had in his chest, the sounds of the muffled voices in his head that caused this chaos. He thought my creation would soften the edge of his darkness; he thought painting me would cradle his heart and would make him move on and heal him from what's shattering his soul. I was made from him and dedicated to him. I look different from all the artworks here, I can see it, I was touched, admired, for seconds or maybe even more just for some time. But I was never actually wanted; people were running away from me or certainly from the pain. But THE few ones who kept staring at me, weren't happy, their facials were showing it all, even if they tried to hide it. Or maybe I was the only one noticing? It actually made me realize how much human beings push each other as much as they need each other, they would stand by each other trying to hide their emotions, not even thinking of themselves. Then how can they think about each other?   My creator's mission was only to create me to try to get rid of his own unwanted thoughts and emotions. Now he's gone but in fact I don't blame him. After all; that's what all creators do, they create you, then, leave you discover and face life by yourself...