Life is art
There was not very much that made me feel alive anymore. Life was just one bland mixture, painted on an imperfect canvas, with fading and cheap colors. Amateurish, ugly to the rest of the world.
I was ugly on the inside, which distorted my reflection on the outside. my colors ran, they bled out.
Yet someday, somewhere, someone will find beauty in it. Someone found beauty in me. Poor and priceless, it would mean the world to them.
In rags or riches they cherished me.
Then one day you’ll realize, art is never bad, nor ugly. But unique to its creator and its admirer.
I was never bad, nor ugly. Just too focused on everyone else’s palette to appreciate my own.
Love is the same way, this is why the most unlikely of souls find one another and become interwoven by the hand. Walking through a confused and appalled world bathing in their originality. Spiting all critics who lack their own masterpiece.