Forget me not

“To be able to forget means sanity.” – Jack London.

Museums have quite a similarity to Libraries. Both places serve as archives of wisdom, connecting centuries through the knowledge of the past and the prospects of the decades to come. They encourage those seeking knowledge to stroll trough selected art works and tailored halls, which act like passageways to discovery and creativity. It was Thursday and Achilles had just made it to the bus on time, his teacher simply dismissing him onto his seat, as the bus set off to the Gallery. The National Gallery, known for its collection of Western European paintings, or people dumping soup over a priceless work of art. I know, it’s stupid. As streets rushed past his vision, a faint hum of the engine surged through his body. The architectural structure of the edifice screamed lavishness and history as it stretched over the northern Trafalgar Square. Crowds of people swarmed around and at the entrance of the gallery, a few people stopping occasionally to examine the scenery. Inside the entrance, brown pillars rose meters high and were joined to a spherical glass dome. The ceiling, walls, and doors were all gilded, and the colours worked well together. Mosaics were dispersed around the floor, and the lights added to the shimmering effect. Groups of students parted ways, Achilles however making his way towards the Vincent van Gogh display that awaited visitors on the second floor, room 43. He passed forest green and burgundy walls covered in paintings ranging from Claude to Johannes Vermeer. For a long time, Vincent van Gogh’s display had been on his bucket list, and now he had the opportunity to view these masterpieces firsthand. Achilles strolled through the seemingly endless rooms and corridors, occasionally pausing to gaze at paintings he hadn’t seen until coming across a deserted room. He didn’t notice her at first until he had paused to look at Miguel Carbonell Selva’s Death of Sappho. She sat on bench in front of it with a journal in hand. He noticed that she had blacked out quiet a few words of whatever she had been writing, not even taking notice of someone else in the verdant room. Maybe he should’ve carried on to where he was headed, but somehow he ended up next to her on that oak bench. “Usually people photograph paintings, I’ve never seen anyone write them down”. “Perhaps people need to change their perspective of capturing emotions”. Achilles paused for a second before looking over, her eyes the same colour as the crashing waves on the canvas in front of them. She looked like the art that hung from the walls. “Perhaps you’re right, is Selva the reason you’re here?” “Not really,” she said gently, “I came here for van Gogh and on my way back I found this gem”. He nodded and looked over at someone who was passing through the room. “Which one was your favourite of van Gogh’s?” She put her journal down “The Wheat Field with Crows, one of his latest works its full of loneliness and intensity”. Dark but good choice. After few moments, she rose up and adjusted her coat. “Forget me not, stranger,” said Achilles. She smiled “Forgetting means sanity, stranger”. “Achilles,” he called over his shoulder as he turned to face the entrance that led deeper into the gallery. “Khali,” she replied, turning to leave. They parted ways for the first time.