The girl in the painting

A long time ago I was smears of paint on a canvas, only bits and pieces of what I have become. After many painstaking hours, I was transformed into a girl lying in lush green grass, covered with peach pink blooms. I was in rapture as my universe was created. Every bud impeccable, every hue filled with hope. My mind was calmed by the cornflower blue watercolor sky speckled with flecks of acrylic white paint. My beautiful hazel eyes marveled at all the colors, lovely yet waiting to come alive. Paint was the only acrid aroma in the air, even though the flowers looked so fragrant. The distant trees were majestic yet minuscule from this far away. Once upon a time, I fantasized about running my fingers over the branches, getting a little closer to reality. Then, I noticed how they never rustled in the non-existent wind, always perfectly still. As magnificent as they seem, the trees were still trapped in this wondrous, beautiful yet dreary world with me. Time never ends inside a masterpiece. As the vibrant sun falsely shines on, every bright, hopeful color fades before my eyes. It all appears the same muted gray, beautiful no more. I can feel the silent screams of life yearning to infuse this exquisite piece of art. Ironically, all this time, the flowers enwrapping me bloom brightly, always a soft, cheery peach-pink.