Another one for  poetigress's thursday prompt. This time the theme fit me very well.




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That peculiar old painting



The painting was old, it must have been hanging on that wall for generations without any interference except an occasional dusting. It had no signature, atleast not a visible one, or one written with words.

Tatiana Egorova had lived in the house since she was born. She had never liked the painting, she thought it looked too eerie to be hanging in a living room but her parents liked it so it stayed where it had always been.
Now she was all alone, she had looked at the painting for more than 80 years and she didn't even notice it anymore. It was as much a part of the house to her as the old wallpaper behind it.

One day when the power was out and the room was lit by burning candles. She noticed the painting again. Her eyes were drawn to the slight reflections of the fire in the oil.
She looked at the painting for a long time but she couldn't see what it was. Infact she had never thought about what was actually pictured on it and now she couldn't anymore.

What was it about the painting she had always dissliked. She couldn't see it anymore. There was nothing to like about it, but likewise there was nothing to dislike.

She took it down, the wallpaper that had been behind it was as colorful as a box of crayons compared to the rest of it. Held it up in hands made mostly of skin and bone and looked at it closely.
It looked nothing like she remembered it. It was a beautiful painting, a masterpiece infact.

She looked at it long and deep, looked into it and she was a part of it. She didn't remember herself being in it, but now she was there and nothing else was. Her life was a painting and the painting was alive.




Written by Bo
19-02-2010