Dreambound

What's real, and what's only a dream?

Alone, confined within his prison, the man sits, his back slouched and his arm raised.

In his hand, a paintbrush.

A weapon in his eyes, perhaps. A tool that could create something from nothing.

Waves crash onto the white shores. The night sky reflects back on itself, a sea of stars amidst the swirling currents. All is calm, yet not.

But, as it were, that world didn’t exist. Couldn’t exist. It would never exist. It could not be created by this hand.

By this hand, all he could create was loneliness.