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The Canvas

The Canvas
by Jace Daniel (b. 1969)

Once upon a time there was a blank canvas. When it got home from the art store, it began to cover itself up with lines and shapes, adding some color, attempting to say something meaningful about the world.

After a while the canvas thought to itself, “I don’t like where this is going. The lines are crooked, the shapes are off, and the colors are wrong. Let me try this again.”

So the canvas covered itself up with new lines, different shapes, and another selection of colors. Attempting to say something meaningful about the world.

After a while the canvas thought to itself, “I don’t like where this is going. The lines are crooked, the shapes are off, and the colors are wrong. Let me try this again.”

The canvas did this over and over and over again, covering itself up, each time trying new lines, different shapes, and another selection of colors. Attempting to say something meaningful about the world.

One day the canvas met a painting. This painting was the most beautiful painting the canvas had ever seen. Its lines were perfect, its shapes were perfect, and its colors were perfect. The painting had a rich texture that the canvas wanted to reach out and touch, and it had something meaningful to say about the world.

“Wow,” the canvas said. “You’re the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen. Your lines are perfect, your shapes are perfect, and your colors are perfect. You have a rich texture that I want to reach out and touch, and you have something meaningful to say about the world.”

“You’re no slouch yourself,” said the painting.

“What do you mean?” asked the canvas.

“Just look at you,” explained the painting. “Your lines are working, your shapes are exactly what they need to be, your colors are fitting right in, and you’ve got a rich texture that can only come with age. You’re really saying something meaningful about the world.”

“You’re wrong,” said the canvas.

“How so?”

“There’s more to me than meets the eye,” said the canvas. “I’m a series of errors. There are imperfect lines and shapes and colors beneath the surface that you can’t see. I’m not worthy to be in your presence.”

“That’s simply not true.”

“Don’t you understand?” said the canvas. “I have a past.”

The painting smiled. “So do I.”

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