One of many.
Are we really a blank page once we’re born? Or are we part of a book in one of life’s many volumes, and we’re just another threaded page into the bind? Do we tear ourselves out once we’re grown, or where we torn out cause that’s how a new book is supposed to begin? Where we peacefully torn, or painfully ripped out? Or is it that we are never separated, as we are always one of many or none at all.
We all know that each chapter is prewritten, and we’re living it knowing that our books are written in the best way -beyond what we can even begin to imagine-.
An emotion, a chance, a memory of many. A page of many chapters. A book part of many volumes.
One human part of a generous universe.
The challenge in today’s post was not the piece of paper that our chicken could’ve painted. The real challenge for me was painting an object on the canvas. I don’t know why I am afraid of painting something that’s not abstract on canvas.