You want to open your eyes. You want to see the people around you. Your father, your mother, your sisters, your friends- the people who love you as much as you love them. You want to reassure them that you’re alright. You want to smile at them, and hug them, and forget everything that had happened on that horrible night- the night that led to this.



Instead, you dream.



You dream of the beauty that you failed to see that night. You stand upon a luscious, green hill, flowers all around you. Below is a valley- with a glittering blue lake and golden wheat, far as the eye can see. For a moment you question… Is this Elysium? But no, it isn’t. You’ve never done anything to be granted entrance to Elysium. You’ve failed in helping the people, the people you’ve called poors. They were hungry, and now you sleep. Elysium is for heroes, you are just a Lord’s second daughter… powerless and without a voice.



And yet you can’t help but marvel at the beauty before you. A glittering waterfall spills into the lake. The sun is high above you and would be warm if you could feel anything at all. This is light, Apollo’s light. Or at least- you dream it is.



You called yourself an artist. You’ve dedicated works to @apollo in thanks and worship, but could you call what you’ve made recently… beauty? What is beauty to you? It’s what you’ve wanted to see, and what left you blind to the world around you. But what’s real, what an artist really looks for is truth.



The field before you is fake. What was real was how you were beaten, punched, kicked, broken- and how you sleep with the inability to wake no matter how much you want to. The darkness of the world is truth, it’s art, and it’s painful. You used art as a way to speak, but your words were hollow.



Except one painting, a painting of death. A painting that showed the hollowed faces of Athenians as they reached towards Charon and his ferry. That was truth- that was real, so why have you been so blind? Apollo granted you the ability to create art, and you’ve instead created lies.



No more, you vow. @apollo, I’ll create the truth now. You’ll paint what’s real, the beauty and the ugliness of the world. You won’t paint what you idealize, but create what reality truly is. The music you play on your harp it won’t be just songs meant to bring joy and singing, but sadness or anger or even hate. Every emotion is precious and worth seeing- no more suppression. Only honesty.



You failed the people, you failed yourself. You haughtily thought your understood what art was, and now you know… the truth. But is it too late? You make your vows, you wish to wake and to see the world again.



Instead, you dream.