The Gallery

Here we go, the ‘thing’ I’ve been wrestling to share. I don’t know what it is yet, what it could be or even if it is to be. There has to be a point where I set it free, otherwise what would be the point. Let me know if you have any thoughts, maybe I’ll tell you the story behind the words next time.


Evicted. She sat on the train begging her eyes to hold back the tears; ‘Please don’t let go eyes, not in such a public place. Not when I’m here for so long, surrounded by strangers pretending not to notice. Just don’t cry’

The phone call had happened earlier that morning, but it’s words had seared trouble in her mind. Afterwards she’d sat, phone in hands, staring at the wall of an unfamiliar house, numb. Then with a sudden energy she’d packed her bags to head back to the home which was no longer hers.

Now sat of the train with too much time to stop her mind from ruminating on uncertainty, there was only one way, one place to cut the twists and turns that were inevitably ahead. She took a pen, closed her eyes and with a deep intake of breath transported herself.

Photo by William Daigneault on Unsplash

On reawakening, she found herself sat on the marble floor of a rather ornate art gallery. This was new; normally she ended up by a stream or in forests. Once she awoke directly at he feet of a lion. To find herself inside was usual, the only other inside she knew was the palace and this as not that.

New as it was, there was a certain familiarity about the building. It was definitely part of Antiquity, the change in atmosphere had told her that, but the unfamiliarity told her to search for some clue to where she was. Rising to her feet she began to wave her way through the works of art that were hanging down from the ceiling like a maze. She rarely travelled without her map and earpiece but neither had been with her when her eyes had opened; and where were the others, nearly always there were others.

Confusion began to lead her. This had not been her plan, she had come for clarity not; forgetting the formality of the building her tears burst forth and the anger and sadness she had desperately tired to hold back, fell out of the mouth.

Taking the pen she had bought, she transformed it to a spray can. Taking it to the walls with her pain at the injustice, it poured from her until her bones ached with the peculiar weariness disappointment brings*. Exhaustion pushing her once again to the marble floor, she fell asleep.

When she awake, she was surprised to find she was still in Antiquity and he had been here as she slept. The cover that had been placed over her, and the pillow beneath her head was a signature of his presence.

With a jolt, she remembered the graffiti “the mess. I made such a mess, the thing I wrote, the accusation” She felt a heaviness saturate her. Tentatively she turned towards the wall. The now clean wall, supported an envelope at its base. Next to the envelop was the spray can, which had now returned to a pen. ‘He can’t even face me’ fear bubbled up inside her, ‘I’m in so much trouble’. Picking up the envelope, she accepted her position and tore it open. ‘Why was she always such a disappointment? Why did she always fly off the handle like this?’.

Inside was a card and on it, written with what she knew was his font “I am going to teach you to trust me. Turn back”

As she turned, the familiarity of the gallery became clear. The works gained clarity and she recognised them as moments in her life, where she had known uncertainly and he had shown himself faithful and good.

In the background a familiar tune played a song which had often strengthened her. She sang as she weaved back through the pictures. For hours she allowed the pictures to calm her hear and mind and slowly felt her attitude transform. Forgiveness and compassion filled her and pushed out the hostility and punishment she had first desired.

Knowing her heart was settled, she closed her eyes one more time and repositioned herself to the train and the strangers around her.

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