h a r m o n y 1 Painting

Photographer. Philosopher. Painter. Croatia based. I see two hills. In between them there is a village. It's not on the map. It has no name. There is a stone path. I approach to the village. It's a hot, Summer day. There are houses in the village. It seems there are no people in the village. I notice a house with no door and I approach to it. There are couple of windows on the house, and couple of window holes with the shutters fell off. The house used to be red, but the rain washed the color out and the Sun faded it. Now it's orange. The other wall has no color, but the plant that climbs up on it has blood red leaves. Windows are green. There is a basket in front of the house. There are shoes in the basket. They look like working shoes, but they might be just regular shoes from some time ago. Who put the shoes in the basket? The front door fell off and now it's on the ground facing up. It was green, but many color chips fell off and purple wood color appears. Wood is purple? Why is this world so beautifully colorful? The key is still in the lock. It's a children painting. I get inside the house. Wooden floor I'm walking on makes cracking noises. It complements crickets sizzling. As I'm walking the dust from the floor slowly rises and mixes with the air. There are few birds in the house. Swallows. I am glad I'm in. Outside is a rainy, Fall day. I see a bed. It has red and white stripes blanket on. It looks like it was made shortly before, but it's rusty. There is a part of the window fell off next to the bed. It's green. I see the kitchen. Table cloth is red and white as well. There are shelves with cup on them, and couple of half empty bottles. I wonder what's in them. I see two cups on the shelf. They are turned upside down not to collect dust. Everything in the house is dusty and I wonder if the inside of the cups are clean. I could turn them over to find out, but I wouldn't do it. I never do it. I am observer. I am visitor. I am the guest. I am witness. It's a joy to be there. The window in the kitchen is broken, and the glass now makes the shape of a person looking outside. It's a bloomy, Spring day outside. Wooden stairs lead to the upper floor. They miss some steps. There is a room upstairs. Baby shoes are on the floor and there is a wooden chair against the wall with the old sewing machine on it. Who put it there? There is a mirror on the other wall and I stood in front of it, but the image mirror reflected wasn't me.