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The Renoir painting on my bedroom wall fell tonight.
Three long years of being physically stuck to my wall, and it conveniently slips off now.
The irony is not lost upon me.
I have been procrastinating taking down my wall art for days.
Now the art is deciding to take matters into its own hands, seeing that I am seemingly incapable of letting go.

I sat and stared at the now tilted painting for a long time.
Impressionism has always been one of my favorite art movements.
Thousands upon thousands of tiny brushstrokes working in harmony to create beauty.
It makes me think of how we become the people that we are.
Both big and small exchanges and experiences creating a whole being over time.
Each one feeling massive and earth-shattering, but as life goes on, they meld into us.
Each one, a brush stroke to create a larger, more beautiful picture.

If I reflect on my own life and the person I am through the impressionist lens, some brush strokes stick out more than others, creating definition and shadows.
Harsh realities drawn through me, altering my portrait from the one that I thought was being painted.
Life, a cynical artist, has been adding so many shadows lately.
At least now I understand their necessity.

It would be a lie to say that I have always recognized myself on the canvas before me.
But now, standing back a little, the brush strokes blur and I see myself so clearly.
A still unfinished portrait looks back at me.
I know it will never look like this again.
Life will continue on.
New brush strokes will be added.
More highlights.
More inescapable shadows.
A whole new painting will emerge, and I'm sure that one will fall off of my wall in a few years too.