My Canvas

Life is a canvas. Does it make any sense? Of course not but, its a beautiful mess you can reminisce. If life were a pattern, a distinct coarse, a set road there would be a well worn path underneath our feet. Yet, I feel fresh, untouched, upturned soil between my toes. Will my canvas be a beautiful masterpiece of awe inspiring revelations? Will my canvas be a monster of a mess in plain, agonizing precisions? Its up to my feet and where they lead me. My feet are led by my heart. My heart pulls me towards the north, somewhere in the black, where the stars and moon part. I know what I want my masterpiece to look like and hopefully it will be, but if I died tomorrow what would you see?