A Trip to The Gallery

This is Girl speaking. I went to the gallery recently, with a poet. We promised to write each other a little something inspired by the day. This is what I wrote, a collection of the impressions I was left with and what our time together meant to me. It is not a story. I do not know what to call it. 

"A boy and a girl walk alongside each other, into a gallery.

Surrounding them, are both faces and no faces at all, all trying to express the matter of ones shared humanity. In the lonely meadow, always the same but rarely acknowledged after dawn, there stands a much smaller being, who dreams of becoming more, to be the in-between of where day ends and night begins. Meanwhile there is the mountain. No matter the season, no matter the time, no one has ever reached its top, yet it is full of soul, the wind carrying those who long to fly so high. Then there are the cities, where loneliness somehow persists. In the street of Paris, the chaos and loudness of living is captured as stories frozen in time, so that it at last can be admired in peace. But the stillness is momentaneous, so hastily one must move over to the street of Rome, where everyone is a stranger, wandering in silence, directionless. There is nothing peaceful about it. Only great discomfort, brought from a place where everyone has been taught words of courage, but no one dares to speak them. At last, a tree and its rotten wisdom, lives on in lines with no border and shapes only understood by those who see beyond the world’s limits. 

The desire to be seen, to be known… An attempt to collect its leftovers all at one place.

It makes the boy feel inspired, the will of humans to never give up the impossible. Whereas the girl only feel despair, there seems to always be more sparks to catch.

The boy and the girl leave the gallery, deep in thoughts, no longer beside each other. They sit down by the seaside and look to the horizon. Few words are exchanged. None are needed for the ripples storming towards their end, nor for the heavy bearing clouds stuck at place. Summer leaves, streaming inside both of them, never becoming autumn, even as the world is about to turn red. Each other's presence is all that is needed. To be seen, to be known, for what one’s soul is made of. The girl lays her head on the boy's shoulder, and there they stay, not realizing that they are the art which painters are yet to capture, a condition which has existed since the beginning of time. 

And to this day, the artist still cries blood, in hopes that there will come a day where this moment can live on in the tip of a paintbrush."