Description
A masterpiece painting, a mere object of beauty to stare at, to adore, to possess. That's how they see me. With each brushstroke, they marvel at the skill and talent of the artist, the intricate details, the vivid colors. And yet, they fail to see the pain behind the smile, the tears hidden beneath the paint. A painting, they call me. A mere beauty that hangs there to please them, to delight them, to be their plaything. But what do they truly know of beauty? Do they understand the nuances, the emotions, the depths of the soul? Or are they simply satisfied with a surface-level appearance, a facade that covers the truth? As the days passes, as time moves forward, the painting becomes dusty, its beauty fading, its colors dulling. It is no longer the center of attention, as it once was. It is no longer the object of admiration, as it once was. It is left to stand alone, unloved, unneeded, unappreciated. How sad, how heartbreaking, to be reduced to a thing, an object, a mere painting. Not a human being with feelings, emotions, thoughts, dreams. Not a soul that longs for connection, for understanding, for love.
1 - Sorrow
