50 - The Canvas of My Life

Over the course of my life, 

I’ve met countless people. 

Some arrived gently, some crashed in like waves. 

Most stayed only for a moment.

Looking back, 

they’re just dots on this once blank canvas we call life. 

Millions of them,

scattered, 

clustered, 

fading.

Some I thought would become lines

stretching across the canvas from beginning to end.

But most broke. 

Some abruptly. 

Others thinned out slowly, 

fading without goodbye.

Now, my canvas is filled. 

Small dots, 

large ones. 

Some look like blood splatter. 

Some like brushstrokes gone wrong. 

Shaggy lines, 

broken paths, 

distinctive marks that linger in memory more than meaning.

It’s an eerie image. 

Not chaotic, 

but haunted.

Still, I long for something more. 

For a few of those dots to stretch into lines again. 

To form a shape that feels like peace. 

To create a picture that doesn’t ache.

Maybe one day, 

some lines will stay. 

And the canvas will feel less like a record of loss 

and more like a quiet masterpiece 

stitched together by presence.