My world feels so still. Bland. Unchanging. Day after day, I look outside the window, hoping to see some small change in the atmosphere, and day after day, I only get disappointed. Sometimes, I wonder if my world is even real, or if it’s just a painted illustration. Perhaps the sturdy trees in the distance are nothing more than delicate strokes of a paintbrush, or the wispy clouds floating above me are just mere splotches of color, wandering over the edge of the canvas. Perhaps.
Perhaps there is a person who is painting this world of mine. Maybe there is someone out there who has thought out every aspect of me, taking the time out of their day to sketch out my frizzy curls, the curve of my nose, the dull tint of my eyes. As much as this thought excites me, I feel undying hate for this painter. Why did he have to paint this specific suburban location? Don’t artists usually depict pretty things, like a foaming stream, an ebbing ocean. Why am I here, artist? And please tell me this: How do I get out?
Perhaps this is a very famous painting, and I am sitting in a well-lit space of an expensive museum, everyone crowding around me and pointing. There could be tourists, snapping photos with bulky cameras, and scholars, perceiving every small detail with delight. Maybe, just maybe, they all look at this young girl staring out through the window and see a little bit of themselves in her. Could they know how trapped I feel here? My regret, my loneliness?
Perhaps I could find a way to ask them. But I know, as hard as I try, I will never hear an answer. All I can do now is sit down by the window, gaze out at mountains of sturdy brown trees in the distance, and hope that the answers to my questions are etched somewhere in the gentle strokes of their bark.