When will the need to be heard, to be held so close to someone’s chest you can hear their heart beating against the rib cage; to be told you mean something to someone, when to yourself you mean nothing at all; to be foolishly happy and afraid of losing it all in the blink of an eye; to make someone’s life a little, if not a lot, better, and live knowing you’re of use, of significant importance; to be not scared of showing too much of yourself and end up being loved less for the mess that you are, to live each day like it’s the last, be met?

To have the same colours in my life that I use to paint empty canvasses with. To be the painting in the end, after hours of different brush strokes, corrections, effort, resulting in a piece that will tell you a story…

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Author: emphadiate

Doc, chai lover, avid reader. Daydreamer extraordinaire. Slightly imbalanced.

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