Life starts as a blank canvas. You draw on it, scribble on it, rip it, crumple it, spill on it, paint, sketch, color, screw up, but never start over. Every mark on that canvas is permanent. You never truly start over. Of course you can repainted the entire thing white, but you know it has a past because it'll never be flat again. That's kinda how the world works. You know that it'll never be its original. You know that there will always be crumples and tears and color and destruction under the white someone used to "fix" all the problems. But they're not being fixed. They're being ignored. And my canvas? It's been scratched and burned and broken and soaked and kissed and hugged and loved and hated and judged and victimized and slaughtered.But that's just mine. All canvases are affected by everyone it's experienced, even if it's subtle.