I'd like to think I was built from the ground up. That someone created my hands with clay and sculpted my cranium on a pottery wheel. It brings me great joy to imagine someone mixing colours, trying to find the perfect shade of green to paint my irises. Perhaps my bones were paper-mached and hung by hemp in bright sun rooms to calcify - all while gentle hands wove flaming flamboyant curly tapestries into my scalp. I think about my backbone being black-smithed and my heart as a complex mosaic - crafted with upmost concentration and dedication.

As time aged, like it always does, I waited patiently for someone to admire the architecture in my smile. Someone to water the grass in my eyes with tears of joy and laughter. I waited for an offer of friendship to proudly accept - but sadly, I was never the "one" people were in search of. It wasn't until I looked in the mirror, that I found my colours had faded into an unsaturated scheme of mediocre. I had been so focused on being desired by someone else, I never unhinged myself from walls and dusted off what had become the obvious look of desperation that rested upon my surface.

I wanted so badly what this portrait of mine was missing. So, I booked a round trip to a foreign island who's sand seemed to never been disturbed. In order to find the sketches that struck ideas as to who I was, I crossed the drawbridge of my tongue and climbed the stairs that lead me into a fluorescent room enthralled with various maps to various places. I saw my heart listed as an attraction, and eagerly rode a kayak straight down the peaks and valleys - down the river of my veins. When I emanated the premises of my good ticker, I was struck with the beauty of the constructed vessel. Every beat was a loud bell that shook the ground every time it rang. When I wandered inside my masterpiece, my sanctuary, my reason - I felt a haunting seep under my skin. Inside, there was a corridor filled with ghostly galleries that displayed nothing but empty walls. Ironic really, how emptiness is an emotion with infinite room to grow. How it can be spread by contact - it festers inside of fulfilled things, creating the illusion that every part of ourselves is decaying.

In pure anguish, I attempted to colour myself - I splattered the tints and hues that I had collected over the past few years onto white walls and noticed that it only seemed to deteriorate into oblivion. This feeling of loneliness was devouring all I had to offer. I wished to combine mediums and create frames. I wanted to display the parts of myself I was proud of, but for some reason I lacked the motivation. I lacked the inspiration.

The ride back to my public persona was dreadfully lonely. I looked down and watched the abandoned organs numbly complete their daily task - while I meanwhile concealed their diligence to the poisonous opinions of perfectionism.

It was only a matter of time that dust found its way back to my canvas and I continued to wallow in rooms of magnificent creation. I was jealous of the stories they had to tell, the way people lined up to see the museums that resided within them. Sometimes I'd try and spark conversation, only for the light to be dimmed by the shadow of doubt that my confidence was petrified of.

This was all until I met a piece of art that truly had no idea that elegance had infested her page. She couldn't see the flowers she flourished with her smile, instead she seemed to only notice the grey clouds that hovered ahead.

I saw something incredibly contemporary in this girl who whispered to me that she wanted to die.

So instead of waiting for God to answer the phone - I let my calligraphed thoughts out of their cage and they took the form of words and proceeded to proudly patter their inky paws across her blank canvas once entitled "Hope". They'd play fetch with positivity so that when she threw a good thing away, they would eagerly carry them right back. I suppose her arm became too tired - or maybe the violent wag of persistence in a determined tail was all it took to earthquake her self worth. Nevertheless, she stopped throwing optimism and finally let her right arm clock out of an overdue shift.

I watched as a shade of dusty rose emerged on her pale, flat-toned skin and witnessed the formation of vibrancy right before my very eyes. Somewhere in the process of cleaning up the watercolors on her cheeks, I must have stained my skin with the colour of her gratitude. This colour, eased the fist that held it. Hell, it unwrapped the wires that deprecated my circulation. For the first time in a very long time, I felt warmth. It thawed my lungs and I finally felt like I could breathe.

This moment - this instant - this revelation - was when the renaissance resurrected in my mind and I spent the remainder of that same evening enlightening the insides of myself I didn't like. I labored until dawn giving myself a coat of fresh paint with only the knowledge and faith that someone would pick up a brush and bring me to life.

My monochrome skin had never felt the glow of yellow, for I had encountered true happiness. I lacked red simply because love cannot be purchased in oil paint tubes. When I felt the green in my eyes bloom once again, I rediscovered the feeling of grass between my toes. Pink, purple, orange, blue, magenta, sea foam, all touched me.... when I touched other people.

I never would've escaped my black and white world if it wasn't for her gratefulness that so beautifully painted the sky. See, I've found that life is a constant struggle of trying to discover how to be the best we can be. In time, life has done nothing but prove to me that our duty as individuals is to help each other, better each other and nonetheless, make each other see the beauty that dwells under our skin. Our mirrors contain nothing but the transparent colours of vain. In order to find pigment and substance within ourselves - we must use our gift, our senses, as a mechanism of appreciation.

We are all artists. We paint all the things around us, in any possible perspective we can. So when someone sees your skin, I hope its filled with vibrancy. If not, you are equipped with an arsenal of different shades - all you have to do is focus your lenses on parts of the world that could use a touchup.

Dont allow dust to evict your impact on the world.

You might find that one day, you're the sistine chapel creating starry starry nights with hands that used to only feel vacancy.

With this in mind, find a medium, and work until calluses form upon your hands. Create until it's effortless and painless. Give life to others, so that you can have it too.

Reader, there will come a day when you will look at your reflection and be proud of how far you've come. If you have trouble seeing it, the rest of us can. You wear your accomplishments on your sleeve - and I'm giving you a standing ovation. If you ever want to sell yourself short, remember that you can never be bought. We are all priceless masterpieces that coincide with the beauty around us.

If no one can obtain the sky, surely no one deserves to obtain you.