Automatic Colors

The more I try to actively participate in my life, the more I feel like a bystander. I watch as someone else steals indiscriminate colors and furiously scribbles a chaotic display of disobedient lines.

Isn't there a rule that says you must stay within the bold black lines clearly designated as the boundaries?

Evidently not. Some mornings I am defiant. This is my book. These are my media. But my venturous pictures that I alone create and for which I draw my own borders become awkward, messy ... mediocre.

Isn't the wildflower supposedly deemed most beautiful? Its bloom is one that has survived a volatile environment to become something treasured, something precious.

But most mornings I desire a new page to color. I want a blank canvas in order to begin again ... yet my medium is still the same. Capricious.
The bold lines are in new places, but the pictures, too, appear the same.

My book is worn; I am running out of pages.

[via Midnight Musings]