

If a soul could be painted, it wouldn't be perfect.
The colors are smeared in places, too bright somewhere, faded somewhere.
There are scratches - not from pain, but from growth.
There are strokes that only I can understand.
Stains from tears. Glints of laughter.
Blank patches where I haven't stepped yet - but I definitely will.
It's not a masterpiece by canon.
But it's my painting. It's alive, unedited, sincere.
And the longer I look at it, the more I love it.