I am slowly changing like a painting manipulated and altered by multiple artists. The artists and I grow old together. My tattered corners must add some character to me, right? For how much could a painting go through before it edges begin to curl backwards from the harsh winds of life? A gust so strong and unpredictable, such as the next stroke of color in my life. I settle, get comfortable as I rest so peacefully on the wall inside the hall I last was decorated into. Passersby have not seen anything in comparison to my wonderfully crafted portrayol of beauty. Stares, compliments, offers to buy, begin to fade into an echo like the end of a song. Even my artist begins to forget the inspiration that drove him to my hanging. For looking too long has exposed my flaws, my mistrokes, my dull past portrayals deceptively hidden behind bright attractive colors. I feel naked in front of my audience, though I am covered by a blanket of dust that has become quite the company. Not so fast. A slow-to-act painter has arrived with new inspiration, unknown to me, never known to me. But alas! He cannot sweep my canvas clean such like the memories I hold close to my core. Each stroke of the newly introduced brush adds a fresh layer of paint to my story. My hues begin to unravel such the smile I cannot hold back behind my welled up tears, like the cat who cannot resist to purr at the pet of his unloving owner. Re-exposed. But then again, when am I not? I sit packed into a box that now lies passenger seat, for I am never the driver. My destination is a mystery, similar to the box of chocolates mentioned by the man named Forest, the only difference here is the mystery surrounds what lies outside of the box, not whats inside. Silence. I was unloaded from the car for what seems like a lifetime ago. But only silence. No wall am I hung from, no display do I perch, no room do I furnish. Like a pearl inside her clam, I know that it cannot be my doing that frees me from this hold. Only my artist knows how to release me. Done. Finished. I guess the artist bought more than he bargained for and I am left in the dirt, easy for him. Freedom is filling my lungs. My lungs that were hardened by the coatings of paint from all of the artists that thought it would look good on me. My reality has constantly been misconstrued by my mind that has been drugged high by the fumes of paint. My first inhale of fresh freedom smells so sweet but leaves the paint on my lungs cracked from stress. I cannot hide the hurt. How will I ever find a new artist to clean up my wounds having been left lying in this dirt field. Who will auction me off? Boom. I suddenly had some inspiration... on my own?! Inspiration that had been there from the start on my blank canvas, only to be constantly covered up and never correctly portrayed. My paint became like a brilliantly weaved lie. But you see time whites out the colors of the details and soon the lie is forgotten completely. But whats left? Whats left? This lifeless white canvas you call beautiful? Hardly such. The question is not whats left. The question is what was there all along? Opportunity. This opportunity is not a puzzle piece that any artist can morph himself into. It awaits the artist that all along fit the space, who has the right inspiration and intention for what I should portray. His bride.