The Painting

As I fell asleep, I found myself in a dream. In my dream, I was back in my childhood. I was walking in a long corridor. On my left were windows, their shutters were opened. The curtains were swaying and dancing to the rythm of the breeze. Bright sunlight streamed in and painted the blue walls of the corridor white. The singing of birds could be heard from outside.

I walked past the doors on my right. None of them caught my eyes. None of them invited my hand to touch its handle, to turn it, and to see what was beyond. There was only one thing that lured my attention. A painting at the end of the corridor.

As I walked up to the painting, the gentle breeze stopped. The curtain stood still, and the birds stopped singing. The blue walls of the corridor turned blood red.

Time stopped.

The painting depicted a barren landscape, a desert of white sand. The sky was blood red, and at the edge of the horizon it touched the land. Remnants of buildings with strange and exotic architectural designs occasionally dotted the lonely desert.

I ran my fingers along the edge of the beautifully crafted gold frame. As I raised my hand to touch the canvas, a shimmer ran through the painting. The canvas was gone, and the painting became real. The golden frame became only a window. A strong wind blew from behind me, and I stumbled into the golden frame. Into the painting. Into the white desert and the blood-red sky.

I stood up and looked back. The frame was gone. The corridor was no more. And I was trapped inside the painting. Where am I, I wondered. The few exotic buildings felt ominous, their tall figures weighing down on me like giants looking down at a mouse.

I walked and I walked. Soon the buildings were gone, left behind by my wandering.
I walked and I walked, yet the desert did not end. The red sky overhead did not change its colour.
I walked and I walked, yet I was still trapped.

I saw a shimmer ahead.
A golden frame
A mirror, hanging in the air, as if held by invisible rope

I ran up to it.
I saw my reflection, but my reflection did not look back at me.
Its eyes are closed, while mine were open.
I ran my fingers along the edge of the mirror's beautifully crafted golden frame.
My reflection stood still.
And I touched the surface of the mirror.
My reflection opened its eyes.

The mirror's surface shimmered, and once again I saw the vision of the blue corridor. I saw myself walking from the other end of the corridor. I saw myself walking ever nearer, ignoring the doors, ignoring the bright sunlight, ignoring the singing of the birds outside the window, not heeding the dancing of the curtains swayed by the gentle breeze.

I screamed to myself not to come near.
I waved my hand at myself, trying to warn myself.
I did not hear it. I did not see it.

The gentle breeze stopped. The curtain stood still, and the birds stopped singing. The blue walls of the corridor turned blood red.

Time stopped.

I ran my fingers along the beautifully crafted golden frame.

I raised my hands and touched the painting.