I was a lone patron left to wander these museum halls, unsure if, in actuality, I was the one wearing the frame, a single piece left to be judged beneath hushed tones. I stared at eyes that stared right back, as conversations played out between myself and these paintings. I was trying to figure out their story while looking for mine. I asked questions that I wanted to know the answers to, hearing echoed wisdom, spoken through whispers in my head. I conveyed aspirations that I had failed to live up to, to the kindness of canvass silence. In some of the paintings, I’d divulge my dark secrets, so I could feel I wasn’t the only one that carried my burdens. It was nice to have someone to listen to, even if they were born of acrylic.