The Fools Picture Frame

Dear Reader, 

I've been following The Fool for some time now. Keeping the distance close. Weaving in and out of dark rooms and broken hallways. 

We walk. 

These walls feel weak and full of strain. The soaked wood floor speckled with puddles of water. The roof carved out with jagged holes and cracks. Exploring this troubled architecture, I find myself feeling at home. A truly saddening feeling it brings about. . .

We walk. 

The Fool is next to me. As I move It moves. As I look It looks. As I walk It walks. 

These empty halls shout in silence. Nothing can be heard but the drops of water hitting the floor and the whistling of the moons cries. Not even my own footsteps can be heard.

We walk. 

I extend my hand to graze the red heart broken walls. The touch tears the coverings off. . .I stop. . .I can't put it back on. I can't mend it together. I can't make it stick. . .All I can do is hold on to this piece of dismembered history. 

I walk. 

The Fool is ahead of me now. Moving as It moves. Looking as It looks. Walking as It walks. It didn't stop. . . It didn't look back or even feel the need to help. As if already familiar with this scenery. 

I walk. 

Trying to catch up I find myself at a corner. Turning my head, I stare down a long hallway. . .So long I can't see the end. But I can see a glisten in the dark. I can feel it. It strikes my heart. . .causing an unfamiliar pain. I don't see The Fool. I don't hear a soul. Even the water is emotionless. 

I walk. 

Trying to reach the end of this maze. Trying to find out what lies ahead. Trying to give myself reason to keep moving forward. 

I walk. 

And walk. 

And walk. 

And walk. 

 

And walk. 

Finally this object begins to form. The moonlight from the ceiling shines directly on its golden frame. I glance up, watching as the clouds cross the eyes of the night. I glance back down to see a Picture Frame.

Its golden borders so clean and crisp, as if cared for like a trophy or a prize. 

It hangs. Half my size. Staring directly at me. 

The painting. What is it? A black picture. Thick strokes covering thick strokes. It is. . .peeling. Relieving more black from underneath. There is a plaque under it. 

It reads, "Family"

I sit down and the hard wood floors. Staring up. Maybe if I wait long enough, something more will be relieved. . .

So I sit.