(My story, inspired on Edward Hoper´s paint)
She was a mess. Her head was a mess. Her thoughts were all over the place and let’s not talk about her emotions. It was ridiculous how much she tried not to care, not to feel, but she did. Oh, how mad she was. She was mad and beautiful. She was always dreaming of art and music and being completely free. She was broad-minded and she was a little scared of herself. No one but me could really see through her. No one would ever get her like I did. She wouldn’t open up anyway. I was madly in love with her. I knew it, she knew it. I had a girlfriend though, a girlfriend that wasn’t in any way like her. No one was quite like her. My girlfriend was a bitch and I was stupid. I stayed with her because I was used to it, I was just scared of being alone. All I really knew was that I loved her so much and that she loved me back, but we weren’t together.
She was in love with me just as much as she was in love with art, with music, with books. She could try and deny it, but we both knew it. I swear I could spend hours looking at her just be herself. I’m the only person that she allows to see her true self, I got that privilege. She hates the person she is when others are around, she calls herself fake and a hypocrite but she doesn’t know how to quit. We don’t know how to quit, we know that we should, but we don´t.
The thing with her is that she has so much inspiration running through her veins, she doesn’t even know what do with it. The thing about her is that she spends too much time stargazing. The thing about her is that she seems to be tough and brave, but she is so fragile. If she only let me take care of her, and if I only took the chance. But us being together, that’s for the stars to decide.
I wished everything was easier and we could be together, and if you’re wondering why we are not, stop, because no one really knows the answer. This life works in a wicked, counter clockwise way, but I guess everything happens the way it should… Timing is everything, and life really should stop contradicting itself. However, enough about reality. I’m here to create a place where everything is easy and where we are together, enjoying life as we should.
It’s Sunday. She usually hates Sundays, but not this one. She is with me and we are in New York at the Whitney Museum. We are just standing in front of this painting that she loves, this Hopper painting. While she stares deeply, I stare at her. She is as beautiful as the painting. I contemplate her and I know she is observing every detail. I know she is painting it with her mind, I know she is feeling the painting. At no point in time the room starts vibrating and we are trapped, frozen in that moment of hope.
Suddenly she starts getting closer to the painting, really, really close. I look at her wandering, hoping the guards won’t notice. She touches the painting and breathes it, then she stretch her hands and slowly tears the canvas apart. She is reaping it with a natural finesse. I just stare, thunderstruck.
I don’t complete understand what’s happening, she takes my hand and somehow we get inside the painting. Before I can fully reason I realize we are not only in the painting, we are becoming the painting. I observe my hands, I’m older, but I’m me. I’m reading the newspaper, or at least that what she thinks I’m doing, but I’m really looking at her. She is now part of the painting, she looks like the girl of the painting, however I can still see right through her.
I stare and study this woman that I have in front of me, she is absolutely beautiful. She’s gold and she’s fire. I feel ready to get burn. I feel ready to feel her pulse beating fast, to feel her skin screaming loud. I am ready now, and she is mine. Everything is the way that’s supposed to be.
She is staring at the skyline, she is wandering the things she always wanders. She is not worried this time, she is not mad. She wonders, but she’s also letting go of the world that surrounds her. She breathes slowly. Something catches her attention. It’s that thing that you, outsider of the painting can’t see, but now we do. I could tell you what it is, but it will be a sin to reveal the secret of her eyes.
The weather is perfection. She enjoys it in that swimming suit that makes me wonder. She shrugs and tells me that she loves when the sky is clear, when the sun shines in a way the blue of the sky changes. I tell her I love that too, but that I love her even more. She smiles and keeps staring at the beautiful horizon.
Another thing we can see and you don’t, our memories. What do we remember? We remember Hopper painting us, creating us, giving us life. We can remember him, we can remember the 1960’s and every year after that one. We remember how he felt when he sketched, how he felt when he painted. He gave us memories that now intertwine with the ones we already own.
Hopper told us a story about a sunlight, and now that we live inside the painting, now that everything was how I always wanted it to be, I didn’t felt like leaving, I didn’t felt like letting her go. So we stayed, and when we decided to stay we heard a second story. So there we are, listening at the music of the Second Story of the Sunlight.
Katower 