Our Lives Are A Living Work Of Art

You begin to invent things after awhile. I suppose it’s only
human nature to add and subtract from our memories; to
recall them the way we feel they should be remembered.
After all, our lives are a living work of art–shouldn’t we
be allowed to shape it in any way we choose?

I remember the first time I saw my favorite painting, how
its fragile beauty snatched my breath. And I thought if
Picasso had painted just one brushstroke less, he could
have told an entirely different story. If he began with a
smear of red instead of blue, it could have been a chapter
instead of an era.

Like this poem? Read more in Lang Leav's book Memories, available here.