Part V: Assertion

Tell me your story.

 

Just like how a new born child lies beside a blank canvas, waiting to write his - tell me your story. 

 

Tell me how each line is drawn. Or rather why. Tell me the stories of geometrical lines, and how they came to pass. Tell me the legends of the organic lines scribbled on your canvas, and how it had shaped your today.

 

I will listen intently as you tell me the fables of the splashes of dried ink on the white space near the borders, and why they came to be.

 

I will listen.

 

I will listen because I want to paint the perfect picture. Because I want mine to be adored by countless people who will be amazed at the sight of such a masterpiece. At such intricate lines that lead to an eternity of stories that will someday be heard over bonfires and fireplaces.

 

I will listen.

 

I will listen as my canvas sits beside me, my hands clutching my paintbrush in utter anxiety.

 

Because I was always hesitant. Calculating. Unsure. Lost. Yes, from time to time I would be lost. It was like I stood in the midst of nowhere and I couldn’t see through the mist. The silence, in its resounding reverberation, would almost always drive me mad.

 

Tell me your story, I plead. That I may write of countless stories that will shape my being.

 

And I will listen.

 

I will listen as I stare blankly at the empty canvas beside me.