Three by three feet.
It’s abstract.
The edges cut off the canvas.
Colors burst at the seams across the display.
Yellows and reds shoot across, branching out for what feels like miles.
They lead into a singular point.
It is an eye.
In the bottom left, in a place where you would not expect it, there is an eye.
An eye where light is pulled into a singular point, a point where color and mass have no meaning, a point of brilliant display, a point where every color of the rainbow is forced together in a satanic amalgamation of color, portrayed and a black heartless stone - when really it is the mere joining of all light?
The eye.
That is the name.
It’s dark hubris, sucking up all light in the world for its own selfish desire.
Hoarder.
Beautiful hoarder, where all light meets.
What an incredible piece.
Rarely can a painting invoke such appreciation yet such loathing.
Contradiction is the only word to describe it.
Imagine a world where the soil is gray, the sky is forever a haze, and the oceans are stained blacker than oil.
There are no people.
It is a place where the sun rises but remains unseen.
Tombstones litter the wasteland, scattered as far as the eye can see.
To outsiders, it would unearth a feeling of pity.
To survivors, it would unearth a feeling hate and resentment at a race of creatures comparable only to the devil.
It’s your fault, they would say, you did this.
It was you, and your ignorance, your inability to look past your greed, your willingness to overlook death.
You sat and watched as fires torched the landscape, as waste covered the shores, as the soil dried, the seas flooded, and life became scarce.
The survivors would curse this race of demons; curse them for their infinite sins.
But the demons lie in regal tombs.
The survivors did not survive.
In this endless waste the world still turns.
Tombs erode.
Corpses rot.
Life rebounds.
And if we look upon the new world, thriving in the wake.
It will be proven that we were unnecessary.