Museum

I was at the museum, I don’t know that brought me there, but here I was.

Ivory white, the walls, the floor, even the celling, all disturbingly clean and shiny.

There, in the corner of the main hall, where I was standing, I saw her. I theing she was a friend, gone by now, but a friend after all.

She was painting the wall (or a canvas? I couldn’t see enough). She held a sponge in her hand, she was painting with it and her fingers, her tiny little fingers.

The painting was quite odd, on it were three childhood priends with a wide smiles and shadows of them in red, blue and grey… and their smiles fading away in each one of the shadows, into a serious mocking face, like mine.

“Why did you painted them like that?” I ask. She says: “It’s not mine, the painting. I don’t create it. It expresses by itself while I make lines and add colour. It has its own identity. I just help it. I copy.”

I guessed she was right because she has no eyes on her face, and that, at the time, made sense.

The white of the hall repulsed the colour. And we stare at the painting. It’s fading, as we are, into the same whiteness, ivory-like. So was the museum, into nothingness or void, we have the words to choose.

And pum! He wakes up

                                                                               Based on Raúl’s dream.

                                                                               December 31^st , 2014