My first step out of the HP world.
Please be nice to me.
Disclaimer: IB IS MINE! ALL MINE! -Gets burned up together with Mary-
Mary
I am just a painting. I am nothing more.
I am the creation of a lonely man deprived of his need and want, who struggled through life with a brush and a paint pallet. I am simply strokes of paint on a plain white canvas, made to be shown off and made to be adored. I am made to portray the magnificence of someone else's talent, display the fine art of liquid dancing so gracefully on paper.
That is my job, my purpose, my reason to exist. A pretty face on a pretty girl in a pretty land of pretty yellow roses.
I was never meant to break free. I was never meant to lose control. I was never meant to leave the pretty land of the pretty roses, to succumb to the magic and the curse of human life, human heart, human soul. I brought a single rose from the pretty land with me, to remind myself of my origin, my purpose.
To remind myself that I am just a painting.
I am nothing more.
I am nothing less.
I talk like a human, walk like a human, breathe like a human, but in the end, all I am is a simple painting. I am a walking zombie with a pretty face, doing the bidding of my creator, letting the strokes of paint that make me explore this other world, this world made of more than just paint, and ruin it.
I am nothing but a copy of human life. I do not live it; I seek it. I am merely a moving piece of art, my creator's last work, his last wish.
I am just a painting.
I am always here.
I am never there.
I am a painting, but I talk like a human, walk like a human, breathe like a human. I fool the world better than a billionaire con artist. I drag others into my world, to let them feel my sorrow, my passion, my anger. I bring them to the land beyond the pretty flowers, let them drown in the world of madness, the world created with brush strokes, the world of me.
Let them learn what it's like to not be real. Let them learn what it's like to not be born in your world, to be born of strokes of paint. I'd even introduce them to my favorite blue doll as a welcoming present.
But in the end, they couldn't understand, they couldn't -wouldn't- accept. They burned me, shunned me to a corner, pushed me out of my own world, shoved reality into my face. Even after everything that's happened, a painting is still merely a painting, and strokes of paint are merely strokes of paint.
I may have fooled the world, I may have fooled myself, but no matter who I've fooled, one thing remains:
I am just a painting. I am nothing more.
I love Mary. Shame she had to go get burned.
R&R? You know you want to.
