I can't pretend.
I walk through the halls, fast, I now only have 2h and 47 min left, where is she?
My eyes snap to every painting on the walls, the ceilings too, they're magnificent, I find Venus first all graceful but I'm pushed around so much by people taking pictures that I can't get a proper glance, I move on, find Botticelli's three graces, I read he painted on wed plaster so the paint dries into the wall, I like that idea, making the canvas art in itself instead of it serving as merely a place to showcase it, in my mind's eye I see him hurried, trying to race the clock and his beating heart, eyes blinking fast and brow sweating but his hands going languid, bc they can sense it flowing through them,
I almost don't want to look, I want my first look of them to be complete and not a fragment, they're big and tortured, I circle them so many times I get dizzy, I tell them: I'm back tho it's my first time seeing them, they don't respond, I tell them they're beautiful but they keep on looking agonized, Michelangelo said that he saw the angel in the stone but I saw myself in there
...Not finished, the weight of said memories was too much to handle, and harder still to put into words.
~2017
YOU ARE READING
I can't pretend
Non-FictionA stream of consiousness about the day i visited the Louvre, and fell in love with Michelangelo's Dying slave and Tortured slave statues, while listening to "I can't pretend" by Tom Odell ♥
