The Blue Door
They stood outside this magnificent piece of architecture, transported into their own, infinite cosmos. “What do you see?” he asks with a child-like curiosity hoping to catch a glimpse of her soul. She walks around the monument in complete silence, as if she were offering a prayer. “I’m waiting”, he insists. Her smile transforms into a thick cloud of melancholy as she speaks with a muffled voice. “I see the death of an era; longings of an artist’s soul buried beside the queen”. He looks at her with a patronising smile, which irks her a bit. “OK, so it seems you have a better tale to tell.” He moves towards her back, placing his chin on her shoulder, whispers into her ear, “You are such a pessimist, aren’t you?” She straightens herself, ejecting her shoulder from his hold. “What’s wrong in seeing things the way they are. It is a tomb, after all!” He looks at her blue eyes, asserting and pleading altogether, like the small girl he had first met, praying that her scores were better than his. The colour of her lens had shaded her view of the world. The blue door simply didn’t exist in her view. All she saw now was a small opening into a dark hallway, far across the glittery facade, where the queen was buried. He decided to not tell her that he did see the tomb. But what took his breath away was the spirit of the artist, whirling into sublime ecstasy like a dervish seeking his master, leaving no stone unturned to breathe life into a monument of death.