J's Musings

The high ceilings and uptight walls barely possess any of the colour they had been made around 100 years ago. A light beige and gold hangs in the air as the richly carved men and women reminiscence of old times, when the cuts of tools were still fresh and wonder for their intricacy existed. The checkered tiles of white and black make every step feel like chess, and soon I checkmate towards my favourite portrait. ‘The sinner’ follows me with his bloodshot eyes as I sit Infront of him; every portrait knows me, but nobody quite moves me like him. Every day he is painted to be a little crueller, he carries the weight of every sin and age that comes upon the sold soul; another portrait and a fan favourite. This guy sold his soul to a painter and kept the promise of eternal beauty, he and the sinner are…old friends. Everyone around me sits next to the portrait they like best, we all talk and vent and I can even hear a man cry. I turn to my sinner and tell him of my little lies, I tell him I have been bad and angry all week; I unravel myself and show him everything inside. And I know he will never find what he wants. Yet I, like all those around me, give a sliver of the truest me to the one portrait who knows how heavily one carries the smallest sin. He doesn’t talk much, he only chuckles and tells me how the world is cruel, but I could be crueller and still I won’t be. That my pride is also my misery.  I smell the oil paint and I feel the cold frame and for a moment the rough edges of the wood take me away from those of the world, the chatter tunes out and all I want is to run away with him. But I guess I’ll leave, and come back just the same next week, through the wooden gates and out the ivory hallway.

By,

Janx 🙂

Picture Credits: samanthashuan on Pinterest