A Museum of Versions

Just a walk through different versions of a girl .

The world’s quiet again
Or so would one like to think
Paintings, poetry, stories
Or just trying out a new recipe
People looking for solace
The world lets out a sigh

Tonight she will take a walk
In this lonely museum
It’s only the guard and the artist
The same critic and observer

Where chandeliers hung
Reflecting unusual colors
Each window held a view

The first one was a messy canvas
It had colors spilled at the wrong corners
Quotes like “Be yourself” somehow
Found a place in a 14-year-old’s diary
Big, bright black letters in bold
Right next to a starry sky window

The 15-year-old was a hopeful blue
A girl sat on a trunk
Trying to fit in another book
The quote of this one said,
“Travel far enough to meet yourself”
But the window view spoke otherwise
She was just a doll dressed by others

The 16-year-old had different plans
The green canvas whispered,
“Travelling through books”
No bold letters, just a grey cloud
The window showed books sprawled

Cups of tea, a violet curtain
Her pen held like a wand
In a hand that shivered to write
Answers to questions asked:
“Who are you really?”
“What do you want?”

The next canvas was a beautiful one
A new city and a colorful sky
Yet you could feel a blue outline
No quotes, no letters were scribbled
It was just a girl with a messy bun
Walking down a lane with a bright smile

The window spoke otherwise
A dark, starless sky
A broken table
An empty ink bottle
Tattered pages
Dried-out cups of tea

She walked ahead a bit more
To see what the next canvas held
No blue marks of ink
No poetry or paper butterflies on it
The sight of such empty white space
Made her want to tear it down

The window kept changing views
The places she never could reach
People she loved standing far away
She being out of their sight

Suddenly, the room shifted
A pen between her fingers
A brush perched on her ear
Tangled in her hair
Paint, ink, and papers all around
A chandelier reflecting yellow light

Now what she wrote, I do not know
Just another borrowed quote:
“It’s about the journey, not the destination,”
“Failure is proof that you tried,”
“Becoming me took time”
I hope she found an answer

Or maybe she just sat on the floor
While she felt the tears reaching her eyes
Her body feeling the icy teardrops
Just trying to make their way out
As she looked up at the white canvas
Feeling the changing window views
She’s there in her present now

The artist alone in the museum
Not able to recognise the colors
Not able to string a few words together
Not willing to understand others
The fake assurance didn’t help anymore
So she curled up on the floor
Closed her eyes and dozed off again

Another night in the museum
That echoed her silent cries
No answers found
The questions still hung in the air
The artist is tired of trying
The observer still waiting
For another painting

She woke up in the morning
Backpack on her shoulder
No music playing as she walked
Again in that familiar lane
Knowing the paths
Yet still just as lost

~K