Connect the Dots

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When I was younger I used to like coloring books. Never really loved them, but they were nice, sometimes.


It was nice to fill in the black lines with crayola scribbles of periwinkle and yellow-green and electric lime.


I remember liking the connect-the-dots pages. I liked how if you followed the numbers, everything would work out. Coloring books were just made to make sense, I suppose.


Things fell into place, the bigger picture was shown and people understood. All as long as the dots were connected in the right sequence and the hands tracing were careful enough to draw straight lines.


Growing up, I kind of I expected life to be like that. I expected the dots to connect, for the numbers to be there.


But life isn’t a connect-the-dots page.


There are no numbers, no dark black lines, no indigo crayons or even dots. There are no guarantees or Ctrl+z keys.


There’s just a blank canvas called time and little ol’ me, trying to make sense of it all.

Created: Jul 31, 2012

Tags: crayola, story, coloring books, abstract, childhood, prose, connect the dots, numbered

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