Two Knocks on the Door

Dear you,

Sometimes you will find me writing you short stories that will begin right after addressing you. I want you to know that, by this, I try to share everything with you; the good and the bad; the terrible writings and the potential I have, if I have any. And here is one.

The painting from the opposite side of my bed looked new to me. it seemed to me as if someone had reframed or changed its position, even though in reality nothing changed at all. I left my bed, accompanied by feelings of dizziness. I fell again, reminding myself, again, that I have to take it a little bit slower on my circulatory system, or was it my blood pressure? I don't know; they all sound the same to me. Doctors, and their boring diagnoses.

To give my body time to ease up, I decided to analyse that painting, infamous to all the people who see it.

- "Are you seriously admiring this painting again with these sleepy, drained eyes of yours?" His voice interrupted my thoughts, thinking that I am actually admiring it, while in reality I was just creating his existence within the painting, because I knew he existed somewhere in there. 

- "Don't you think it's time you took it down and hung a new one, worthy of gazing it?" He continued, without waiting for my answer.

- "Oh, I am merely giving the artist what he needs: some appreciation and pondering. Otherwise, there would be no point in his creation."

- "There is no point in this nonsense." In an attempt to attack art, like he always does, he almost shouted.

- "I don't understand how some tainted colours drawn in a completely random pattern could sell or even be displayed in galleries." I thought I heard him whisper to himself. But I told myself it was only in my head.

- "Tell me what you think of it, honestly speaking, what colours do you see, at least? Give me five colours."

That look, he gave me that look again, which I knew. It meant I'm crazy, or I have lost my mind. Or do both mean the same thing? I felt dizzy again, and I placed my fingers on the sides of my head and started to rub it. Trying to focus, because if I'm crazy, I should, at least, be open about it.

- "Okay, there is crimson, or a darker shade of it; I am not good with colours names. Your species have thousands of names for one colour we know. There is also black, not pitch black, though. And there is white, with splatters of yellow."

- "These are only four colours. Even so, let's take this in order: red is the colour of passion, the colour of determination. Black is the colour of mystery, the unknown, the secrets. White is the colour of purity, wholeness, splattered with cowardice; impatience, and that is yellow. This painting is life in short. We all think we're perfect, but our souls are distorted with the cowardice to admit we are not. And we're all determined to do the things we truly love, but are often scared of the unknown, the things that life hides from us, to test us, or attempt to destroy us." I took a deep breath and sealed my lips, waiting for something.

Nothing came out of him. I am not sure whether I left him speechless or whether he was trying to find a loophole to mock my spontaneous attempts to be a crazy artist.

- "What about love?" He shot an answer, as if to press violently and abruptly on my open wounds.

- "Love, in paintings, would never have a colour. Why? Because it is the colour of everything, and it is all the colours at once. Go ahead and be cynical; mock my clichés."

- "Oh, no I won't, at least not this time. For once, I think you are right. Art speaks of countless emotions, but it only gives us a glimpse of that emotion. the intensity and peak of these emotions will never be conveyed. Not a writer, a musician, or even a painter can do that."

- "Really? This is like the first time we ever agree to something!"

- "We do. Always. I just do not expose myself much to your dangerously insane thoughts."

- "Why? What do you mean?"

- "Because it would mean we have more things in common than you would think."

- "And what is wrong with that?"

I thought I heard a knock on the door. Two knocks. Oh, no. It was him.

- "You look so pale. Are you alright? Who were you talking to? Is it him again?"

- "I am sorry." I thought. But he never heard me.

Yours faithfully and sincerely,

N.