Every brushstroke of paint got hardened, and all life got dried up. Only a pathway of awe is left—nothing else. When irises glide over me, the interpretation changes, but I still cannot move— being framed like superstition I am a painting on the wall— a pigment on an aged canvas trapped in the museum halls. I try to cry and feel, but I cannot if I am just a turquoise reflection without any reactions or reinforcements. Maybe one day my linen face will peel off, and I will be taken off this wall. But now, I know who I am—I guess I have never lived in the painting after all.