The Mural

For as long as I could remember, that mural on the brick wall that separated the dome from the outside world was the symbol of perfection, beauty, and purity in my consciousness. It was a vintage thing, fading at the edges. The scene was painted by a couple well before my time not long after the establishment of the compound according to the signature on the bottom right corner with its unintelligible names. The yellowing clouds were fluffier than the marshmallows once found in the food stores which I roasted in July to make s'mores during the annual celebration of enthralling flame and eruption. How ironic an image for an enclosure topped by a quite opaque ceiling. The waning emerald jewels that were the hills rolled and it seemed you could feel the wind rush across your face and through your hair as it tickled the hypothetical grass beneath you. The caged area that was home was disappointingly uniform and concrete. I would sit and stare at the landscape. I would stand and admire the expanse. I would lie and analyze the intricacies. I did until I could no more. It transformed from the place of perfection, beauty, and purity to a place of loathing, disgust, and rage. Why should I be kempt in this place a hostage amongst this false truth, this lie? What was on the opposing side of that barrier? I could not be contained within it any longer. A sledgehammer was produced. A sledgehammer was swung. An impediment felled. Rays of light shown through the hole that was once a cloud topped mound and I passed through the threshold. My sentimentality, my fear, my comfort all drew me back but they were overpowered by sensations of a unique tone, ones I now know as freedom and happiness. The outside was nothing as I had imagined or as the mural had depicted but that's why I loved it. Isn't there something imperfect about perfection?