Burn Mona Lisa

Somewhere deep inside me, Mona Lisa burns and as the smoke lifts off her pretty face, my chains follow.

My mother always told me Mona Lisa is perfection. Her creator spent hundreds of hours on her. Each detail is purposeful, well thought out and perfectly executed. A perfect imitation of all that's beautiful in life. From her deep eyes, to her perfect skin, to the mysterious smile, to all the details we can't see under the dirt and grime everyone is so afraid to lift.

Somewhere far away, in the dark abyss, unknown to me, Mona Lisa burns. She has been for some time. The that smoke rises from her burning canvas is only now reaching my senses.

The smell is light and intoxicating. I suddenly don't find her smile mysterious, I'm not enthralled by her beauty. I know her secret. I know why she smiles. I can finally take my eyes away from her, and the smile turns into a frown.

The smell of the smoke is becoming stronger, consuming me in its fog. What was my obsession is now nothing but a passing interest. I can appreciate her and her creator. I can spend hours explaining the chemistry of the paint, the engineering of the brush strokes. But I don't care. I can talk about her for days on end. But I don't want to anymore. I may know too much. I don't want to anymore.

My mother still talks about her. She longs for the memories of our shared passion.

We talk about Starry Night now, no longer obsessing over a smile. We talk about the paintings I will soon create.

No longer do I strive for the perfection Mona Lisa represents. I no longer blush at compliments. I don't need a spotlight to be the center of attention. I don't need to be shown off as a masterpiece. Whoever made me colored outside of the lines. Mona Lisa is still trapped inside her gold frame.

The smell of the burning canvas is intoxicating. It is freeing. Somewhere deep down, Mona Lisa burns, and I paint a new world with her ashes.