She lives in a cloudy glass sphere. Through its walls, she catches brief glimpses of the world outside. This is enough, perhaps, to give her a vague impression of it, though it cannot be said she truly knows that world. She knows only her sphere.
She knows they way her own voice echoes inside of it. She knows her own scents and the way they fill the air. She knows her reflection, though it is blurred against the white-grey glass, and she will never see herself as clearly as someone else might, standing beside her.
Because she doesn’t know the world outside the sphere, she invents her own. She paints upon the clouded walls, creating landscapes and cities and creatures and people, all formed with her own hand. There is a great deal of space upon the walls, but each new stroke of her brush covers up and erases part of her view of the world outside, replacing it with something of her own creation.
Sometimes she tires of what she has once painted, and she paints over it once more. In this way she preserves small view-ports into that external realm, leaving herself small spaces by which to see. Nevertheless, there remain those works to which she is indelibly attached, those which she can never see herself abandoning. As the years pass, these favored paintings grow in number, until there are none which she can erase to continue her work.
And so, eventually, her view is painted over, and she can see nothing but the world of her own creation.