The stains of the tea known as life splattering on the sheets. The taste of tragic evident on the words rolling down the tongue. Happiness as a blur of motion here and there.
It is a nice thought, though. To think that we are, at the beginning, in our birth, blank as a new white canvas. The reality is, like it is in most cases, far from it. There is something splattered there on the canvas. No matter how hard we would like to believe other, someone has already printed something on us.