She looked at the wall and saw that it was not good enough. So she decided to redo it.
She thought back to the perceptions of what was ancient, and what people would find exotic; and decided to give them what they wanted. On this wall which had never before been looked at. She wanted to create a story and tell it. But no one wanted to listen. And that is why she was doing this.
She needed to paint out a lie that everyone already believed in so that they would believe in what she created. And thus, from the first moment on, the creation was flawed. Because it had within it, not what others imagined, but the baggage that they carried.
The moments of creation were, of course, beautiful. The white light streaming in from behind her and illuminating as she created. The gentle breeze that ruffled her hair, which she finally had to tie up. The joy of mixing the colours with her new brushes. And how it all transformed the wall. The wall which had nothing on it. Now had a story. Her story. Her infected story, but her story nonetheless. And as her story unfolded, she was drawn in by it. Simply by the act of creating it.
What she didn’t know was, the story that she was creating was real. Somewhere, as her story mixed with the perceptions and beliefs of others, the truth came out. The truth about the past – ancient and exotic. The truth, that everyone would believe from here on. That visitors would talk about and write about. The discoveries that would be made of this truth.
But to her it was just another creation. So she went about it without any thoughts about the future. She was too wrapped up in creating the past.