A Series of Observations

Leading into the end of a day, the museum’s glass ceiling focused the sky’s hues of orange, red, and yellow around the space, adding a warmth that was not matched outside. A collective sigh could be felt, in the comfort of the patrons and the precious art that surrounded them. The pictures and sculptures would soon come to life under the gentle caress of the setting sun.

The woman walked around peacefully, enjoying the remainder of her time to appreciate the history that surrounded her. The softness of her sweater was welcomed and enjoyed as her crossed arms wrapped around her. Despite having been inside for a while, the beginning fall chill in the air permeated her bones and could not be shaken.

Museums were collective spaces, where people marveled at history and talent beyond their comprehension, and she marveled at them. This was not the first time she had been to this museum and the exhibits had not yet transitioned, so she took her time enjoying the experience through the people she passed by.

The man trudged the many steps to the wide mouth of the museum doors, each step heavier from the exhaustion of his day. His heart was broken, to be frank, and he sought out a calm that could only be found in silence and the appreciation of something beautiful.

His mind was a blur of thoughts and feelings. Work was a nightmare, stress stealing his otherwise positive energy. His life was a mix of good and bad, providing a general sense of melancholy he had too tight of a grip on. The man’s sister was insistent that he needed support and she knew this would offer wonders for his mind and soul.

The steps were quickly overcome, legs burning with the dependable reaction to such use. Straightening his scarf and resetting his hair from the wind, the man entered the museum to greet his sister in the lobby.

The woman was now appreciating ancient sculptures, wondering if art really did imitate life and who these people once were. Her creative mind gave them names if they had none, whole lives where they might not, and reveled in the connections she made.

There was an elderly couple smiling fondly at a particular sculpture, and she noted the hushed conversation of nostalgia of their youthful forms. Smiling as she passed them, she could not have found them more beautiful. To have lived a life that allowed for wrinkles to set into your skin was a gift not often afforded, and she hoped to be worthy of such a life.

Soft music echoed through the exhibits of the museum, its tunes a lullaby for the patrons to fall into rhythm with. Afterall, music is an art like anything else, merely appreciated differently. She couldn’t help but move with its tempo, gentling dancing from piece to piece, but never so much as to disturb anyone else.

There were less people now, the sun had nearly set entirely. The art continued to glow with the final rays of the days sun, and she thought to move more quickly. The exhibit holding the sculptures was not the home she was searching for among these halls and set off to the next exhibit.  

The man had followed his sister without thought, she knew where she was going and he was in desperate need of not using his mind. The music calmed him in ways he forgot was possible and as that comfort grew throughout his body, he found himself removing his scarf and coat, and even went so far as to loosen his tie.

His problems seemed so small here, and perhaps outside these walls they were the same size. Over so much of history, not just his own but for those before him, he imagined the problems people faced often felt as though it took over their entire world. He wondered what people then did to make them seem otherwise.

It was a fitting thing then, to imagine their lives as the melodies took him from room to room. His phone blissfully silent, and for the first time in a while, his mind lighter. He battled a few memories as he walked around the rooms to replace them. Memories of holding someone’s hand and laying his coat over their shoulders. A story that only history could hold onto now.

He looked around at the dwindling crowd and realized he had been separated from his sister, though he did not worry. He would continue until he found their meeting point, an unwavering spot that they had made at a much younger age. Time moved faster than he liked, and he approached his favorite painting. Situated with a perfectly placed bench at its front, he sat down and sighed.

The man would never grow tired of this sight. This painting, how real and powerful it was. Perfect strokes of carefully blended colors, he allowed himself to get lost in it.

The woman had found herself approaching her final destination, an expanse of rooms and halls holding the most glorious paintings one would ever see. Her creative visions flourished here, a never-ending supply of characters and worlds to fuel her imagination. Her shoes clacked softly on the wood floor below her and she gazed around. The sun had finally given up its efforts for the day and the rooms found themselves swaddled in a sensual display of soft light.

In a way it was deeply romantic, softening the world around her and illuminating what was most important and beautiful. She allowed the darkness to comfort her, and the gentle beacons of light to guide her.

Ahead there was a familiar head of red hair on a woman standing in a doorway leading to another room of art, directly in her desired path. The woman paused for a moment and found her heart froze for the briefest of moments. It had been so long since she last saw her, and she wasn’t entirely sure if this crossing would be welcomed or not. More likely, the woman was more intrigued to see who the red headed woman was with.

Fate would have them meet and they did so with happiness. A quick embrace opened the hushed thrills of their reconnection. The red headed woman finished with a somber look, telling the woman briefly of the recent events of her brother’s life.

“He would be so happy to see you again.” She swore so and urged the woman in his direction. One step turned into many, and she found herself rounding the bench to silently sit by his side.

The man’s concentration was not often easily broken, but the gentle rhythm of heels on the floor and the soft scent of a familiar perfume in the air tore his focus to shreds. For a minute he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the painting before him, now scrutinizing it to tremendous detail in fear that he had entered a dream. However she was real, her hair just as dark but far longer than the last they had met.

She hadn’t said a word yet, and his own threatened to spill over without restraint.

What are you doing here?

How have you been?

I missed you.

He held his composure so to not completely humiliate himself, and he was grateful for the moment she afforded him.

It would not be stopped; he could not sit next to her and not appreciate her as he did the art around him, for the historical pieces could not compare. He could not sit next to her and not look into her eyes.

So he did, and still they did not say a word. She smiled gently and scooted an inch closer. His troubles were now nonexistent, recent heartbreaks accepted and forgotten, for the woman before him would never be a source for such things. He smiled genuinely at the muse before him and dared to move even closer.

From there, the rest was history.