Perhaps we are all metaphors of ourselves. Perhaps we start life like sketches, which slowly get filled with with daubs and washes of colour – huge blobs of primary colours, two-dimensional and flat.
And then as we progress life anoints us with some shadow and nuance, so we don’t rust so much as weather; we don’t flash so much as glow. We acquire fifty shades of grey; we acquire a billion shades of the sunrise and the moonset, signifying nothing and everything.
Perhaps we are the myths we craft and are crafted by, both painter and painting. But all I ask is never to be taken down and framed up.
I want to be a forever work in progress, never finished so long as I still dream and draw breath.