The world thought she was crazy because she wasn’t like them. They thought she was lost in her own world. She saw beauty in everything. She talked to the trees, she sang with the breeze and she flew with the birds. She wasn’t lost, she had found herself. She wasn’t crazy, she was an artist.
He would arrive at dawn and sit on a quiet corner of the beach. He would be gone before the morning sun broke over the horizon.
Everyday they would thank the mysterious artist for brightening their day.
The day she was being left amidst howling of emptiness. Destruction occurred to her. Her wrecked soul flooded, suffocated from remembrance. She stretched her crafty realm. She didn’t even know if it existed before. She arrested into unknown, captured few isolated moments for herself and transformed her every tear into verse. People call her artist.
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