What We Create

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 18, 2018

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Submitted: July 18, 2018

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The canvas rose high above the sky.

Corners stretching to the edge

 

An ocean of opportunity and dream for all

People have crafted their visions since birth

 

The rules of reality were bent and lives shaped

By a white finite sheet with limited coverage.

It could display infinite realities in suspended time

 

Desire turned to obsession. Ideas became corrupted.

More and more wanted to paint their mark on the canvas

 

They shoved and stepped on others to paint at the top

Where the view was better and seen more often

 

No one could work together to create a universal image

They stole brushes from others, who could no longer paint what they wanted

 

People painted faster to complete their images before they were washed over by another.

Less efficient they became.

 

Hands were shaking, eyes strained and thoughts became cloudy.

Each image would be painted over by a bigger brush to cover more space

But unable to create the details within the body of work.

 

Millions competed in a battle for sole ownership of the canvas to do as they please.

And the subordination of the people to not paint over their work.

 

Brushes turned into knives, as they began painting with their victims’ blood, inspiring fear and Hate like the new wave of artistic innovation.

 

Green, Blue, Yellow, Orange, and Purple. None were strong enough to pass through the potent Red everyone saw.

 

They picked areas, and drew around them to protect their line of work from others

They painted out of a desire to provoke others, while still trying to be an inspiration

 

Painting graphic and extreme imagery with a tornado of color

Some stripped away the fabric and splintered the wooden frame

Turning an array of creativity, collaboration and discipline into a vast display of nothing

 

Eventually, they tugged and pulled it in every direction

Until the sheet ripped

 

Into several little pieces, the canvas was broken

 

They all scattered to grab as many pieces as they could

While those that got nothing were confined to

A life without connection nor opportunity.

 

People don’t want to let go of the few pieces of canvas they have left.

They now create in private, with only their eyes to observe

 

The pieces are much too small for a big idea, and not complete without the rest

Ideas piled on top one another til the original pictures were no longer visible

 

The paintings are overworked, with everything crammed into the small pieces

No one is satisfied. And no one will ever see it.

 

Every piece drifts further and further away, taking everyone with it

Until they can no longer be seen or heard

 

Still, they hold onto the broken canvas; ideals lost and unity withered

Ending sadly, with the feeling of never being whole again


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