Deliberate Desires

I had painted a tiny space for which I could exist in. It was a very pretty little room, the ceiling the colour of the cosmos, and the walls, the colour of the rainbow. Butterflies flew about like specks of diamonds in the sky, and flowers glowed, blooming with the splendour of all that was. This very living space, this area - it was genuinely perfect. It was more than just flawless... it was perfectly flawless. I could just reach out and touch the ethereal clouds of heaven that was suspended in the air above, and sing the praises of the romantic rain.

It was so perfect.

Too perfect.

And so I tored down the walls and the door and floor, and wrecked the landscape, brutally, and left it bleeding tears of innocent fury... It was a devastated world... and ordered mayhem just shrouded the once perfect world, transforming it into a ruthless dystopia. And I saw the pastures that laid beyond the confines I had been existing in all along. And the grass - they stretched for miles and miles at glance, a picture so seamlessly put together by a masterful artist, more so than me.

And then I knew I had conceived a deliberate world just to deceive myself with.