This memory was much happier. They were holding hands, strolling along the exhibition with murmurs of content and intrigue from one masterpiece to another.
“Van Gogh or Monet?” Some of the passer-bys’ attempts at holding a tasteful discussion slipped by them for they were too engulfed in each others’ own sphere of thoughts.
When was the last time we’ve done this.
Now that’s unacceptable, isn’t it?
Ha, if only we both make more time.
They paused before Monet’s Sunrise (Marine), and at least half of them had an answer for the snippet of conversation that slipped past them earlier.
“I prefer Monet.”
“Anything in this museum, really.”
“I didn’t know that a single painting can move you so?”
“No…not just because of this painting…”
…But its blurs of greys and blues and greens in certain ambiguity capturing the glimmers of sunlight on rippling waters at the brink of day, all of which are before them, framed, and just at that moment, seemed as though it was just for them.
Now one could spend the entire time assigning the greys to the clouds of their love, the glimmers to their happiest times, and the greens to…
But, what is the point?
For what is love but pictures in the worldly exhibition, certain ambiguity in the eyes of the beholders.