as an inanimate object.

If I were an inanimate object, I’d be a canvas; more specifically, a fresh, crisp, roll of canvas. Everyone in my life is like a coterie of artists, painting, doodling, sketching, dancing, dripping, drawing, smearing, plastering. I’m the embodiment-an expression of them. In a single canvas, I would infiltrate the souls of the misunderstood, harboring their souls as a paint reservoir. And the tears, the agony, the suffering, the pain, the anger, the depression, the rejection, the raining misery, the contempt, the envy, the jealousy, the bitterness, or perhaps on a lighter note, the energy, the giddiness, the uncontrolled wave of consciousness, unconsciousness would be splattered across my surface, soaked into the woven fibers of my being. The most enjoyable part is: that moment their paintbrush kisses me, I would be their anger. I would be a part of their misery. I would get a taste of that memory, that emotion, and the gritty, inner figments comprising it. Beyond the tangible, the world would be gazing at me with their eyes, trying to figure me out. I’d become something abstract, something with depth and purpose. I’d be a thought, a mood, a critique of the present three-dimensional world—I’d be eternal.

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