Sometimes, the color just drains away and we are left with white. An artist sees this as a world of new oppertunity to recreate one's self. A blank sheet. A whole life meerly chipping away, and it needed to be molded back into the newest representation of the self. The true self. The self you find walking along the beach. The self running a marathon. Not the self on that billboard or in a bottle.

And so we fight. We fight to put back in that color. We fight to make the shape our own.

We look for that genuine smile that was not picture posed, because what does a fake anything prove? To whom? WHy? Was it your fault?

So small and insecure, we shake. In this world we are insignificant, just a breath in the fold of the earth's creation what will forget us in moments.

We march on. Small. Hiding small or proud to be small. We cannot be defined. There is no comparison. And so we reach out in the dark, stumbling into blackness.

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