I stare at the television. Deven Martin, the famous painter, introduced his new series of paintings depicting landscapes in the cover of night. I immediately get up to buy them.

I turn the television off and stroll out of my apartment, dodging messy paints and unfinished pieces.

The cold winter air numbs my cheeks.

Why am I going through all this for some simple paintings?

Because you love him.

I don’t even know him.

Nor does he know you…

That thought lingers in my mind as I wait for the bus.

Deven Martin doesn’t even know I exist. He doesn’t know I hang every one of his paintings in my small, cramped apartment.

I pivot back to my apartment, fighting the small voice in my head begging for Deven’s new paintings.

No! I argued back. Why feed the obsession?

I do not buy his new paintings.

That night, instead of dreaming over Deven Martin’s paintings, I turn back to my own pieces.

In strokes and swirls, I paint my own destiny.