dreaming in parables.

I was a curator in an old, forgotten art gallery in my dreams last night. This upside-down painting of a girl caught my attention. I can’t tell whether it was her charm or the fact that the piece was upturned that made it so particularly striking but whatever the case was, I aimed to correct its presentation. As I pulled it off the wall, the girl jumped out of the painting. She lunged at me, whispering in a harsh urgent, tone. “There’s nothing wrong with this painting! It is not upside-down, I am. I hide in the painting because art is the only place I can live without being turned over.”

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