It’s pain not to know what you look like

I have never seen myself. Yes, never ever! I can barely think about my shape or size; the only objective facts I can rely on are: my width and height must be a yard or so, I am plain and not very thick; I must be quite heavy though.

But the story is not about me, mainly. It is about people, while I sure cannot be called a human being. It seems sometimes, the visitors of the gallery deserve to be spoken about far more that the exhibits. Here are the reasons why:

- they never become boring, though they may be rude, stupid, badly dressed, etc. etc.

- they tend to talk about us, artworks; that is the only source of information for us on what we are, actually;

- they often use perfumes;

- they have children who giggle and joke, and mess around; we don't.

The workers of the museum are another kind of beings - I would describe them as something in-between the visitors and us. That is because they spend so much time here. However, they can move and look into the mirrors at the ends of the gallery.

Oh, how I wish I could look straight into that image-reflecting glass, too! People can decide for themselves whether they are handsome or ugly, common or weird... And alas, they are the only creatures who can judge us in this manner, for we cannot...

It's pain not to know what you look like.