We're born with nothing.

We're born like a blank slate. An untouched canvas, who's owner (our experiences) is not quite ready to pick up their brushes just yet.

Once we get older, the canvas is being painted. The artist gets inspired, filling our white surface with scribbles; that's our knowledge.

You were born with nothing too.

You were born like a blank slate as well. An untouched canvas, like the rest of us. No brush had touched you once you were brought in this world, you and every other person. 

Once you got older, the canvas was being painted too. The artist got inspired, like for the rest of us, filling your white surface with scribbles; that's your knowledge, everyone has some.

Although, the scribbles on your canvas seem different than the ones the rest have. They're unattractive, uneven, crooked black lines on a torn surface. 

Our scribbles seem different than the ones you have. They're beautiful, even, a rainbow on the blue bright sky.

Doesn't it bother you? 

It bothers me. An artist should never treat their piece in such cruel way.

I'm an artist. 

Can I take a closer look? I want to help. I want to paint over your dark and ugly scribbles, over your painful and scary memories.

Weren't those that created the horrendous drawing on your canvas, the memories? Experiencing those dark days, those fearful times, it filled your surface with unwanted scribbles that made you stand out.

You didn't want to stand out. Not for your damaged canvas, I know.

Would it upset you? If I took a closer look? All I want is to help you. Please, don't push me away anymore. I'm an artist, I know what to do.

“No one would even care, if I ever died.” you cried once “Maybe in my next life I'll be born as someone who people can love.”

“But, Mina, you don't understand!” I cried back “Please don't hurt yourself anymore.”

Do you remember that night?

“You don't need to be born again to find love,” you didn't hear me even though I screamed “Isn't my love enough to keep you here for a little longer?”

I do, but I guess you didn't want to. You didn't want to remember. 

“Mina!” I cried louder for you “I love you.”

Do you remember? It was the night you set your canvas on fire, you tore it into a million pieces. 

“I want to help you. Please don't tell me this is the end,” you wouldn't respond “We'll paint over your dark days together!”

I do. It was the night a monstrous dark line crossed over my colorful scribbles. 

“Please come back.”

But you didn't and my canvas lost it's colors.