When you are by yourself, do you ever think of the world? About the vast galaxies beyond our reach. About the the happy moments being celebrated. About the solemn moments being observed. How often do our thoughts wander far away from home? How often do we think of masses of people walking in the streets, working under the Sun, or asleep in the comfort of a shelter? Rarely.
The wooden floor creaked with every step, some panels threatening to give way with slightly louder crackings. Even in the dim light, it was clear the room's only ornaments consisted of coats of dust and a few hundred paintings. Some on the wall. The proprietor sighed and made his way to the last painting at the end, certain of his resolution. He was certain, yes, he was certainly taking it down.
"What are you going to do?"
Her. It was her again. She tugged gently at his sleeve, her eyes widened pleadingly.
"Alright, alright, not today. 2 more days, and that's it, alright?"
She nodded and her eyes wandered away to the painting.
"It is so beautiful."
The corner of his lips curled up, as if to smile, but his eyes were devoid of happiness.
"Beautiful, yes, but unreal," he replied. But his words held no effect, her countenance remained gay, partly wistful. Resigning, he added, "Though, of course, the subject must have been quite like his portrait. The artist is very well-known for his art."
"Too well known for this one. He looks as if he is looking at me so pensively it is hard to look away, you know."
"After all, what is art if you cannot connect with it?"
"His hands- they are almost as if ..as if..-"
"It is a famous portrait, my dear."
"But they are so real."
"I beg to differ. If you know the subject,-"
"Oh! Will I know him? Do you think I shall ever be acquainted with him?"
"I am afraid that is most impossible and improbable."
"Such a pity! When this painting is gone, what shall I do? What shall I do, indeed!"
"Why, you will no longer trouble me!"
"Don't always talk so! But pray tell me, why shall I not be his friend?"
"My dear, strangers do not concern themselves with little ones like you. Now, now, don't be so downcast. Is it not the portrait you enjoy?"
"Isn't the portrait based on a model?"
"I did not say it was not. But the portrait- it only shows you what is pleasing to be shown. In fact, this portrait is perfection, did you not think so? That is because it was only meant to convey perfection. But the subject is not. He is just like you and I and anyone else, really. Inside, we are all a little defective. His defects..they are just not seen superficially."
"Still, I would have like to..¬"
"It will be just another painting that fades away from your memory when you stop frequenting it."
"I don't think I ever shall- how can I forget those dark eyes that the stars can't outshine? They watched me sometimes, I think 4 times, I dare say they wandered towards me."
"But galaxies await them- why should they stop to pacify you?"
"And I could feel it, you know, the gentle movements- oh, and how, I was so close! I could feel the warmth. I would like to feel it always, but you are taking it away and I will have it no longer."
"And there is that. 2 more times and this space will be empty. Don't fret over it, lass. It's not the only painting in existence."
They only wandered...towards the dark and dingy storeroom at the corner of the delusional street, and often found themselves lost and duplicated, in the gallery of memories.
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