She was an artist who lived her whole life not knowing she was an artist. As a child, nothing made her happier than sunshine and a good book. She lived her teenage years as an outcast, turning her back on the world and all its people. It was lonesome. Her body aged with emotion, each wrinkle on her face reflected a lost masterpiece. Her life was an honest deception, a collection of hidden lies and thoughts. She realized her mistake near the brink of death. Her deathbed was an expression of all that was lost. Her body was the canvas her should craved to paint on. The blues, greens, reds, and purples of every memory poured outing a strong finality. The colors bled into her skin, soaked her insides, and came gushing out into the air. The heavens applauded and the earth laughed gaily. Her bones were one with the dirt, and her voice echoed to the horizon. It was freedom as fate had promised. It was sadness, and happiness, and frustration. It was beautiful.