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Rated: E · Monologue · Biographical · #1717069
The words of an age-old photo-frame to you, as you stare at the portrait it holds...
Hi! How do you do? Hey it’s me, the frame – not the man you’re staring blankly at. Ah, yes! So how do you do? I know people don’t come to look at me, so I guess even you are one of those who unintentionally glance at my striking golden look. Okay, stare at his face again. I don’t mind.

I am a photo-frame. My gold plating has turned heads for years. They turn, but the eyes stare at the painting I hold, and not me. It is the portrait of the man who founded this huge museum 250 years ago. When he died, I was born, and I uphold his image till date.

Millions have walked through the gates of this museum and beheld the lush green lawns spread over acres of land. Then they have bought tickets from the counter and entered the building to take a first look at me. I have always been the most majestic frame in the whole building. That boosted my ego and made me proud. Yes, I am proud of myself. I am proud of my looks and my experience. The number of people who have walked past me and their appreciative words know no bounds.

The great man for whom these walls entertain so many lives through me. I hold his image straight up, where he sits on a couch scrutinising every single being walking through his doors with a hint of a smile on his mysterious lips. His eyes reflect his joy and his convivial nature. His hands, busy with a pen and paper flaunt his dutiful nature. His feet, one on the other show how calm and cool-headed he was about everything. I never saw him in person, so I know a little less than one who personally knew him. But the painting I hold has taught me a lot as well. His love for his building is clear in his eyes, and it teaches me to love my home equally.

When I see the man at the desk asking for comments from the visitors, I wonder why I am not asked what they think. I hear it when they speak it aloud. I could repeat the exact words they say. When they have to write, they are too lazy to write down everything they really felt.

I have seen this place grow. From a five-chambered museum to a full-fledged three-floored one, I have been the witness. It is like my home now – the place where I belong.

Oh! I have to tell you this. I recently overheard some men talking about building a fourth floor. The artefacts of the ground floor (this one) would be shifted there, and this floor would be used as a memorial for all the people involved in the making of this grand place. There would be a huge model of the whole campus with no detail left out. It would be like a three-dimensional map, I guess. Models of the machines once used to make the building would also be made. Moreover, there would be a chamber to keep the photographs and paintings of all the people involved, so that our citizens never forget who were responsible for the making of such a magnificent compilation of numerous outstanding artefacts. I’m so excited!

Oh, I’m growing old. But hey I’m dusted everyday, and it keeps me clean and sparkling. When in the evening, the moonlight steals in through the small gaps of the building after it has been locked for the day, I reflect the light, and get a rather transformed silver look. It creates patterns on the smooth marble floor. I stare at the floor as these patterns gradually change with the change in position of the moon, and I fall asleep unknowingly.
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