

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.