Heritage. Seems like everyone’s got it. These long stories that you couldn’t make up if you tried. A starting point. A colorful canvas to backdrop your life. A pretty frame to place yourself in.
Me. I am a blank canvas. My relatives, my history: long gone. Lost on me. Like an empty cloud, I have no basis. My frame is empty. My frame is not there.
Here. I am left. Staring at this great open white. Paint pallet in my hand. Staring. Trying to make something out of nothing. A beautiful masterpiece of complex line and color. All out of white. White open nothing. That is what I’m given. Now go paint. Just do it. You’ll do great.
I guess the good thing is I can always start over. Cover up what is bad. What I don’t like. Or I could just scrap it all together. Start fresh. But in order to do that, I need something to be there first. A brush stroke. Paint on canvas. A clue.
I am a blank canvas, waiting to become something great. A masterpiece of color. A thousand stories. A history. A place to come from. Someone to be. This great big white towers over me.