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It's me. A mosaic. Full of broken pieces, with different colors and structures. I will always be a painting of the paint I've collected over the years. I cannot get rid of parts I hate, they're stuck to me forever. I am hate, love. I am what I've accomplished. I am all my mistakes. I'm every moment I've ever lived.
There's a light in front of me, but I hide in the shadows. I don't want people to see these broken edges. I am not like other paintings. I wasn't painted with caution, my feather wasn't perfect.
But maybe there's hope inside of me? There was a time when ugliness was wanted in the art world. So maybe there's a time for me to be wanted to? Maybe when I'll shine someone will come to my stand, and out of other perfect paintings they will point at me and say - "It's beautiful". Maybe I'm more than I see?
Maybe, one day - I'll be a perfect imperfection. And maybe, one day - You'll be one too.
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