A story of an old tale ends, and new tale begins.
Birth. The starting point to any storytellers. The starting point of a canvas. As pure as any white can get. Not a single dot of impureness on its body. All to pureness perfection.
But the canvas is merely.. an emptiness of white. Nothing to show and nothing to tell.
The canvas is always ready for a story. Always waiting in open fold for any tellers of ink and colour.
Near the canvas, it sees many brushes and charcoals. Pens, pencils and powders stood near each other like lines of soldiers waiting for any command. Ready to serve.
Beside them, colours and tones well lined to mimic any spectrum one can wish. “Your wish is our colour” they say.
The canvas stood there aimlessly, puzzling over the situation yet anxious for something that it did not understand.
And then it happened. An ink, green of colour splashed onto its body, reclaiming the pure whiteness it once entitled.
Development? Maybe.
Tainted? Who can say?
But neither you nor I can tell the difference. At least not yet.
The canvas was shocked to see the green coloured ink intruding the whitened sanctuary, for a while. But then the canvas felt like welcoming the fellow intruder to stay. The ink was still wet, fresh from wherever it came from. Some of it is dripping further down on the canvas. Destination? Unknown.
One intruder was welcomed. Then came another who wishes to join. And another… and another…
Due time, shapes and colour all joined together, occupying the former white sanctuary. All of them spilled to show what they can offer. None of them hold back of their talents.
Some have strokes of grey. Repetition to fulfillment.
Some have fuzzy brush strokes. Blurs away into any path.
The white canvas is white no more.
Every inch of its pixels are filled with shapes and strokes of colours and greys. Every pores are stamped with layers and layers of texture. Carbons, dust and acrylic became permanent residence of the sanctuary, a companion perfect for substitution to the emptiness.
And now, now the canvas has a story. Now, the canvas can be the storyteller. The canvas has a tale of strokes and colours, only it knows best. After all, the canvas experienced it itself firsthand. There’s no storyteller the same as the canvas. No stories similar to it’s. No strokes and colours that have the same arrangement and composition as the canvas. Originality to its fines.
As the canvas stood proud, showing the tales carved in its own body to the world, it sees that many other canvases also stood with their own strokes and colours. Stood with their own tales that they themselves know best and none other could. Each with their own identity. Each with their own companion to their own former white sanctuary.
And just at the corner of the room, the canvas sees a new canvas. One which is still pure of whiteness and of no companion of strokes and colours. The one which is freshly been birth.
With little hesitation and a lot of hope, the canvas decides to help the newborn canvas to make way of its own path. A path that reveals the newborns own sets of tales. A tale that can flourish thru the clouds and outshine the other tales of canvasses.
It just needed a kick-start.
There, the story of the old tale ends, and new tale begins. There, a yellow-coloured ink has spilled to the newborn canvas’s body.
