[This Requestor is anonymous]
Inside, an artist sits. Her talent seems dead to her. A distant memory. She weeps as she looks out the window at the idyllic scene of the lake. Sorrow and loss have broken her, she believes. She will never paint again, she swears.
She isolates herself. She hides and cries. She seeks the solace of sorrow.
But there is hope for this beloved, dear human. If she will but rise up, shake off the mire of the misery, and walk outside and commune with me again, I will fill her broken heart to overflowing. I will love her, hold her close, wrap her in my wings.
I will flood her with the power, the unfathomable depths, of my compassion. I do not hate her. I could not hate her. Such a thing is beyond impossible.
When hopes and dreams fall from the exalted tower of hope, and shatter on the ground, it is not as it seems. Nothing, beloved, is as it seems. Where the blackbird sings, there is hope.
The artist is bottled up like a beta in a bowl. But not by my choosing. Never, ever, by my choosing. I would wish for you to fly free. Unfettered. Filled with joy, hope, and peace. Live with harmony, beloved.
Come outside, and let me love you.
For I do. Truly.