Artisan

As children, we painted with a prism of passion. The color held its splendor as we shaped a masterpiece of the soul. We called the image “Identity.”

But with time, our lives began to change. The scarlet tones faded, and the crimson heart filled with cracks and tears. We now walk among our peers with but the faded letters of “Entity.”

The child’s colors lie buried in a closet of memory. The canvas, within a breathing vault. We, the artisans, need only to dig; to unlock.

As adults, we need only to paint once more.

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