We paint these pretty landscapes in our head. Stroke by stroke, perfect detail, perfect color. Stroke by stroke of just perfection. The what ifs we wish were real. We try to make it real, so detailed it could be real, we want it to be real. It's not. It never is and never will be. We need to let it go, I need to let it go. What stands before us is so much more real. It's not perfection, but it's so much clearer. It's reality, it's the truth. I can't fear it and turn away going back to my perfect painting. I meet it, I confront it. The problem is, I don't know what exactly it is. It's not fear, not hatred or anger; it's not sadness, of confusion, or some puzzle. It's just, reality. My innocent painting won't cut it anymore. The world's not perfect, everything is not always fine, and not everyone is nice. Everyone won't always like you and not everyone will always be there for you. I face up to the truth, but I cower down. For now, I sill like to paint.