She painted other people to complete them, but she never knew that she was using up her own nature colours to do so.

Every portrait she finished was some of her light specks in her eyes gone, a little piece of her heart disappearing into the abyss of the underground.

She was so engrossed in perfecting everything she did, she took so much care, attention and precision to improve every aspect, to make the perfect painting.

One day, when she was so close to achieving her goals, mere centimetres away from it, she could only see pitch black.
Nothing she saw was the meaningful, beautiful scenery she always saw.
Her light had faded, lost from her golden soul.
She was broken.
She couldn't fonction anymore.
Everything she did was forced and meaningless.
She put so much effort into something she could not appreciate anymore.

Did she regret it? Yes, but it was too late.