The beautiful and complete masterpiece is in front of me. I am its master. The ecstatic feeling of utter content, being able to handle eloquent, precise and perfect brushstrokes, creating the finest marks in the right places, in the right manner, and in the right time. Brilliant! Oh the joy and wonder of this world, I will never dare to replace this feeling of brilliance and content for anything else! It’s just not worth it.
Alas, dreams are dreams. What has spurred my dream to spawn so vigorously and vibrantly and with such dramatic detail? God only knows. I even knew what medium I was using, what I was painting, and the ambient, bleak situation about me; disturbing red rugs and carpets, dark red drapery hanging from the walls, a noisy crowd outside my room, in the kitchen, including such close members as my grandparents, my uncle, my mother. What were they talking about?
My far relative, a Russian girl, lying on the bed, languid and bored, one foot pulled close with knee bent in my tiny claustrophobic room. She is older than me, and I remember how I played with her when I was very small and ignorant; the metallic, well-constructed soviet train set, I was always careful when I was young and she helped me build the railway.
She was criticizing my piece. Her words were muffled and incomprehensible, but it didn’t matter, she criticized for the sake of criticizing. God, I’m tired, but I must go on, finish the masterpiece, make the clouds fluffier, more prominent and rich with colour. Oh, look! I can see a tiny white unicorn up there! How? But it doesn’t matter, it adds to the piece.
Hmm, a very strange dream, very busy with information and detail. I will never forget that feeling of exceptional content, like I’m the master of my world, limitless, unforgiving, majestic.
$root - whoami master of my world
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