Impressionism.

I wrote this during a Creative Writing course last year, but recently edited it an awful lot. The original prompt was to look through a newspaper, and choose a picture that stood out to you. The picture I chose was actually the obituary picture of an art museum curater in Paris, who had recently died. She was holding a painting of a ballerina, standing outside in the cold. Her eyes were what stood out to me. They were a painting, of course, but they could see right into you, I swear. I wish I knew what the painting was called. So anyway, enjoy. Thanks for reading.

It is Paris, 1774.
The shrill winters breeze caresses a trembling hand across our ears, robbing any remaining inklings of warmth, and replacing our skin with the frail, frozen petals of a scarlet rose.
I am ten years old, thin as the final branches of a waning autumn tree, my cheeks losing more and more of their pigments, once vibrant with the colorings of life, as the brittle air slaps us, again and again, and we grow numb.
As I stand shaking, melting away from my own thin bones, a thousand painted faces pass us, all wearing the same numb expressions. Their cheeks lack the luster of life, of purpose. It is feigned, the ambition in their eyes of clay and plaster. They walk with the same stride, of false ingenuity.
And I know that when you look at me, my dear artist, you will not see them. They are but a piece of this interminably frozen background.
But I, however, am not. Even though my artist molded me in too small of a stencil. Even though I cannot grow, and the people of my world, were built to be much taller. And they cannot see me, standing so low.
But you of all souls, my artist, understand that the important things, are not the big things.
Painted to my alabaster skin, is a thin pink dress. It hangs loosely from shoulders that bear no weight, no substance. The colors are muted, and the onslaught of a gentle snow turns the scene to a pallor of icy blue. And I am cold.
In my arms, I clutch a small, torn pail pink pair of point shoes. I don't wear them, though I crave to. I desperately desire the obscure, curious feeling of the fine satin, resting against my toes, warming the ground in which I stand.
My dear, Artist. This was a thoughtless thing to do. I am frozen. So frozen in this time and place, in this ice, and the gaze of my superiors.
Now, freeze.
Remember everything my frail body has told you. Remember the look in my eyes. Remember my thin dress. The shoes I am forbidden to wear. The world I'm not tall enough to be a part of.
Remember this.
Remember me.
Paint my picture, in your hungry minds.
It is a pleasant scene before you, I assume. The bright lights of Paris. The steam from the baker's windows. The charm. The imagery, of the City of Love.
And your heart swims.
You can smell the baguettes.
You feel the snow on your nose.
And then your eyes open, and you see me. I stand against a towering, rusting gate of wrought iron. My stare is fixated unto the very fringes of your wandering hearts. And from my perch here, worlds and ages away from the gallery in which you must be standing, your breath stops for a moment. Your voice catches in your throat. And you regret your happiness, and you are guilty to have been so blessed.
You see me, and though I am gazing at you, I cannot see you. I just pretend. I try very hard, so that maybe, I am remembered.
Are you painting this, my artist? I hope you are. I hope you paint my picture, a thousand times, and send it to every corner of the big planet you inhabit, in which I will never roam. The planet I am too small to reach, to touch. The earth that is too hard for the feet I cannot feel, the dance floors I'll never see.
I'll clutch my ballet shoes, torn and small, and every time you think of me, every time my eyes appear in your midnight musings, I will dance.
So paint this.
Keep me warm.
Keep the image of my gaze, as I stare into you, planted in the depths of your preoccupied minds. And you'll walk taller than me, and see things I'll never see. But I'll be there with you.
A picture is worth a thousand words.
And I am counting on you, my artist, to show me that the world out there is much larger than this corner of an ancient Paris.
And everyone will see me, and when they dance, they will think of me.
For now, I remain forever frozen, but thank you, dear artist, for seeing.
Remember this when it is cold in your heart.
Remember me, when you freeze.
Thank you, artist.
You are free to melt.