The room used to be quiet. dull. dead. But a figure walked into the room and excitement, joy, light rushed in lk a stampede of American oxen. I was in total aghast till this strange figure came before me, felt my texture, went in depth with my worth and scrutinised me with complete admiration. How thrilled was I! Intoxicated with joy was I! I had grown so famliar, so accustomed to this sort of attention despite the short time span it had been. But no matter how delightlful it may seem, Good Fortune has shone her light dimly on me and before I could gather my consciousness together, Her candle has died out.

Am I like a painting? Painted but not to the colour of your desires? Painted but with a brush worth not more than a crow's feather? Displayed in the light but not in the midsts of million dollar artifacts but displayed in the dim light amongst the disposed lot?

Am I like a painting? Beautiful and inviting at first sight, but as the unforgiving minute passes, messes up your mind with abstract logic and labyrinth confusion? A painting different from many, unique in my own sense of creativity that has been lavished upon my paper that once used to be bleak, plain, dull. With every stroke of detail my Artist has brushed across my dress. but sadly, found appalling in your eyes in comparison to the painting you saw before me.

In my eyes, a painting nayy it is. It shone differently in the light, it seemed like a sculpture more than a painting in which you stood many seasons before to take in such deep consideration of its details. Its colours spoke to you, as though words were imprinted on its very texture. Its details stike your eyes and its refine finishing eventually captivated your heart. And there you stood before that painting, staring, admiring but woe to me, here i lay quietly hung, incapacitated, pondering on whether quiet sobs would do my colours any good after seeing where you chose to stand. To see you smile and glow in such boyish joy in its very presence.

Should I be in glee by the fact that he has actually spent a good 5 minutes looking at me and choose to not despair at the fact that he had the intention of purchasing her? how lucky she is to have someone to admire her all day and night. To willingly flash out the millions for her capture. What choice do I have but to keep still and silent as you walk out that door, with that painting in your hands. And once again the museum is quiet. And it kills me.