How People Became Lost Artworks and Hidden Museums

Photo by: Soren Astrup Jorgensen

I remember the first time we went to a museum. It was Sunday and the sun was a little brighter than usual. As we enter the building, we noticed that there were only a few people inside. I thought it was a good thing, for we can adore the art treasures and enjoy the serenity of the place ourselves.

The museum’s walls were full of history and untold stories. We wandered around while admiring the beauty of each painting and sculpture we encounter.

There was this one particular work of art that captured your attention. The artist called it, “My Secret Place”. It was a painting of a sunset in a field of lush, green grass and sunflowers.

We both agreed that the painting is beyond beautiful. But despite its vibrant and calming colors, it also gave me a feeling of sadness, loss, and hope. I thought that maybe the artist was longing for something distant — that maybe he turned the sunset into a hand of a broken clock.

You were deeply immersed in the painting. Your eyes were gleaming and I can tell with one glance that you would like to be nowhere else.

Afterward, I was a little taken aback when you reached out and gently squeezed my hand. You didn’t look in my direction, though. You just held me as if I were the last artwork in the room. I don’t know what you were thinking back then. But, I liked how your palm met mine, how your hand was slowly dancing and finding its way in between the gaps of my fingers.

At that moment, I felt something tugged at my heart strings. It was your name knocking the walls of my rib cage. I let it climbed and carved its way in my soul.

You made me your home. You turned my body into a blanket that kept you warm at night.

I have loved you. Even if I have seen the knife in your hands, the darkness in your sleeves, and that lost look in your eyes.

And I,

I didn’t mind.

Every corner of the museum was full of history and untold stories. And if you were to ask me what was my favorite artwork back then, it would be you.

You’re a collection of metaphors. An exhibition of love, happiness, and loneliness. A masterpiece that can touch the heart and soul of every aesthete. You’re a raw and unfinished canvas. You’re never perfect, but you will always be worthy enough to be in a museum.

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It has been two years since I have loved you and your mess. After you left that night, you created a big, empty space in my heart. A museum that’s full of distant memories and unfulfilled promises. It’s an art cathedral where no one else can set foot in, except you.

Most days, my body doesn’t feel like moving. I’m not sad or anything, I’m just restless. Nothing has been working right inside my heart since you left. I haven’t let anyone in there, either.

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