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Life is like art.

Set a brush on the canvas, and it formed a mark. It didn't form anything else, but that mark. 

And then - add a little dash to the side. 

Now, a T is present.

Nothing more. Nothing less. Just a simple T with a handy stroke articulated into it.

The formation of the painting required more than just a simplistic dash on the outer creases of the paper. Subliminal brush strokes and infinite passion were required, and without either, it wouldn't be a painting and even the simple due of evening out the colors wouldn't suffice any value. Both components were essential to the outer appearance. Without the other, it would put the Lewis out of Lewis and Clark, or vice versa.

Those were the rules of the game, and like that, a masterpiece was born, but as I said, "Life is like art." because art was nothing in comparison to human behavior. 

Sure, we could express it through blots of saturation and contrasts from acrylics, furnished water from hardened dyes, as well as, statuesque marionettes and their puppeteers, but could we truly grasp emotions of living entity through our artwork? 

But, those thoughts were swept away as I was fully engrossed on the TV screen.

"No, I'm mad at you because I love you." Damon said, enunciating his words to illustrative affection. Oh, what I would have done if I were in Elena's position, but at present, I nearly fell off my stool.

I leant over my seat and awaited Elena's response, which was pretty obvious, her long requited love for him. She would be out of her mind if she thought otherwise, but clearly, she was when she said, "Well, maybe that's the problem."

Out of impulse, I threw the nearest object - which was glass - at the side of the TV, but my aim was terrible as usual and hit the shelf a few meters away, but it didn't concern me because, right now, I sat there, mulling over the fact about whether I should place Elena in an electric chair or slit her throat with my bare hands.

Well, not like I could ever do that. I'd probably end up hurting myself, though my mouth hung agape as I watched the rest of the scene unfold.

When someone said "I love you", one didn't simply say that they were the problem, instead embrace them and passionately inform the person that they loved them equally as much, especially when the initiater risked most of their life and pent-up feelings to make the best of it.

"Dian," father's voice boomed throughout the apartment.

If the neighbors hadn't been awake already, they were sure to be awake now because even father's voice was capable of an avalanche and a snowstorm. "What was that?!"

"Psh...nothing!" I slung back, rushing over to the shelf to clean the mess, while occasionally throwing nervous glances over my shoulder to make sure he hadn't snuck up on me, but he hadn't, and I felt grateful for that because despite my incapability to aim, I had a good throw, or so I was told, and seeing that the shelves were considerably damaged, I might strongly believe them now.

"Good," was all he said before it grew silent and the murmurs from The Vampire Diaries resonated around the room. The faint sounds of the Big Apple mingled with the show, but it was pretty obvious which was reality and what wasn't.

I paused in my hustling to tune back in where Rebekah was currently taking Matt out into the parking lot doing lord knows what with him. She was pretty I had to hand it to her, but she was an Original after all, and an Original would always be dashingly pretty, unless they were staked the next day, then they'd be a gruesome corpse like the rest of them rotting in a graveyard. It made me envious of her for some time, until I remembered she was only a nimble character, and I wasn't.

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