I entered the painting, because the room
outside was louder than I could survive.

At first it was generous:
a hallway sketched in pale blues,
a window promised in charcoal lines,
a floor that behaved.

I took a step.
The door behind me learned how to forget.

In this picture, nothing rushes.
The clock is implied,
a smear of gold where hours once agreed to pass.
I wait long enough
for dust to develop a personality.

There is a chair.
I sit.
It accepts me too easily.

The walls inch closer the way politeness does:
never admitting intention,
always apologizing.
Perspective tightens its grip,
until distance becomes decorative.

I try to shout.
Sound stays inside my mouth,
turns back,
asks what I expected.

The figure in the painting
(now clearly me)
stands frozen mid-gesture,
hand raised as if this were a moment
that could still be edited.

Visitors pass.
They tilt their heads.
They say things like Remarkable restraint
and use of negative space.
No one notices the air thinning.

Eventually, I understand the trick:
the painting is not a prison;
it’s a decision
made permanent.

I stop pacing.
The walls stop moving.
We reach an agreement.

When the lights go out in the gallery,
I remain, perfectly
framed, telling myself
the oldest story there is:
Stillness is safer
than escape.