The masterpiece.

Ever so often, when they looked at me, spoke about me, or to me, they likened me to a masterpiece; my beautiful soul and the person I was, “an absolute work of art,” they said. It was on one of my darker days that I mistakenly reflected on what this could imply, and I came to a crushing realisation. They were comparing me to expensive art. Art to be admired, revered and adored. But never to be acquired. The ones that would choose to take possession of this kind of wondrous creation would know exactly what it was worth, but would keep this knowledge and the creation itself hidden – so it could never be damaged, or coveted.

I didn’t want to be a masterpiece. I wanted to be someone’s intricate jigsaw, to be finished piece by painstaking piece. When the picture would be completed, there would be a sense of pride towards me. I would be proudly displayed, for their entire world to see, rather than framed away under lock and key.

I didn’t want to be a masterpiece. I wanted to be a lovingly knit jumper; the result of someone’s focused labour. The very fibre of my soul would weave seamlessly with theirs, blending moments and memories to wrap us in the warmth of the lives we shared.

I didn’t want to be a masterpiece. I wanted to be someone’s meticulous needlepoint. As much as they’d have to strain to get things just right, and as much as they could get pricked on occasion, they would persevere because they knew the end result was worth it. I wanted to be worth that effort.

I didn’t want to be a masterpiece. Unless it was to that soul that believed my perceived outward beauty was only enhanced by the love that overflowed from my soul to flood the lives of those around me.

I didn’t want to be a masterpiece. Unless it was to the artist that understood why I existed, and loved me for it.

I didn’t want to be a masterpiece.

 

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