My world is strokes of pigment on a canvas. Black, white, and shades of gray paint an illusion of light and shadow.
See behind me? (Or I should say above, for I have no behind.) There stands a splotchy forest of kelly and hunter, beneath the indistinct sky. A humble home that I have never really known. An immaterial stone path that I never have trod.
See my axe? Though I whet it eternally, it never is honed. If it were, I would have nowhere to take it, no use for it. My only labor is to stand fixed in this pose, set for me by my creator. Never to wipe the sweat from my brow, nor feel the cool muddy water as I wade ankle-deep. Not even to sit and rest these weary legs.
But I can dream.
Sometimes I glimpse the beauty of el mundo milagroso outside the canvas. I hear that world is round, and lit in vibrant hues.
I wish I could swing this axe, rend the canvas and burst from this Euclidean prison. Transubstantiate from broad strokes into flesh and blood. Burst out to become who I wish to be, and see all there is to see.