Museum

In her dreams she was always barefoot. The marble floor was cold under her feet, but it was comforting nevertheless. She always wore a long flowing dress with enough fabric to use it as a blanket, if needed. The color varied, sometimes it was midnight blue, sometimes a pink so pale it seemed white, and sometimes it was as orange as the rising sun. 

In her dreams the sun had always set and stars sparkled outside the large panned windows. The city was asleep, everyone was asleep but her. The lights inside the building were dimmed, and the dead eyes of the people on the paintings chased her. It was always the same museum, too, but the exhibitions changed, some days it was medieval art, some days ancient Greek, others contemporary conceptual art. 

She would fly from one room to the other her skirts trailing her, stopping in front of specific exhibits, getting close enough to touch them. Eventually she would sit down on the floor, using the excess fabric as a pillow, and tried to imagine what the artist was thinking of when they worked on the piece. Other times she caressed the statues, feeling the cold irradiating from the stone, pretending they were alive. When she was tired of soaking herself with art, she would take her dress off, make a nest out of its fabric, and lie down to sleep a work of art herself among the exhibitions. She would always wake up on that moment wishing to have a real night alone at a museum.