The Black Line.

The form of pain, sorrow, hurtfulness, hate.

Death.

It is the black line of our lives.  The pencil to the paper.  It draws the outline, contrasting against the white spaces.  Our contentment.  Our joy.  Our love and our life.

It gives rise to the shape, to the flow, to the form.  Where the hand of fate, choice, and happenstance, draw the lines and frame the spaces.  Letting us see which is which.

And only when the pencil is used up, and then pulled from the paper, does the black line really and truly allow us to see the tapestry of our lives.

Only when the picture is finished, and our lives are done, can we truly look at the black line, and see, exactly what kind of character we have finally become.

We are our own artwork.