This one is a narrow corridor of maybe,a vertical slice of half-remembered city,where colors stand around like strangerswaiting for a delayed metaphor.

It is not a pigture,
no snout, no curly tail,
only a yellow thought
trying to push its way
through an overbooked hallway of rectangles.

---

At the top left a chunk of lemon-yellow
leans down like an impatient question:
So, what are you doing with your life today?
Directly beneath it, lilac shrugs,
cyan rolls its eyes,
and magenta pretends to check its phone.

The lines between them are drawn in evening grey,
wobbly, overworked,
like a bus schedule that no longer believes
in punctuality or progress.
They try to frame the scene
but keep getting distracted
by their own trembling.

---

Each vertical block is a message
you wrote in your head
and never dared to send.
The long purple one on the left
starts with “I just wanted to say”
and dissolves into static.

Next to it stands a blue column of
“I think we need to talk,”
which has grown moss at the bottom
from all the postponed conversations.
The lime-green strip in the middle
contains exactly three words:
I miss you.
They glow so loudly
that the architect had to wrap them
in extra cyan silence.

---

DADA arrives late,
wearing mismatched socks and a safety helmet.
It doesn’t sign in at the reception;
it simply walks into the painting
and starts rearranging gravity.

The pink floor tilts five degrees
towards irrational decisions.
The yellow ceiling forgets it is ceiling
and becomes a stage light instead,
casting courage on whoever
steps into the central patch of blue.

Somewhere between the blocks
a tiny balcony appears,
just big enough for one doubt
and a cup of coffee
balanced on a memory.

---

In the lower third
an oblique magenta plate
slides across the composition
like a secret opinion.
It wants to be taken seriously
but keeps giggling in fuchsia.

The dark purple triangle beside it
used to be a firm standpoint
until it discovered ambiguity yoga.
Now it stretches, bends,
and refuses to choose
between “yes” and “no”;
it only offers
“how about sideways.”

A smear of red near the bottom center,
half flower, half spill,
is the official stamp
of the Bureau of Accidental Feelings.
They processed your file yesterday,
then lost it under a pile of neon.

---

The corridor at the heart of the picture
is tiled in cool blue fatigue,
the kind you get after answering
too many polite questions
about your long-term plans.

Lights flicker in mustard-yellow intervals,
announcing boarding for Flight 42B
to Alternative Outcomes.
No one moves;
they’re still filling out
the Schengen visa for self-doubt.

A teal block leans into the path
like a security scanner:
please remove all metal certainties,
step through with pockets full of maybe,
and don’t forget to take
your unrealistic expectations
from the conveyor belt at the end.

---

On the right edge
a vertical stripe of disciplined yellow
pretends to be responsible adulthood.
It keeps all the other colors
from spilling into chaos,
or so it claims.

But of course,
at night,
when the insomnia trains are running,
this yellow bar sneaks off duty.
It dances with violet,
flirts with aqua,
and lets magenta write manifestos
on its careful surface:

“DOWN WITH LINEAR CAREERS.”
“UP WITH CROOKED HAPPINESS.”
“I’D RATHER BE A BAD POEM
THAN A GOOD APPLICATION FORM.”

By morning,
the slogans have faded,
but the structure remembers
in its trembling outlines.

---

You walk into this vertical world,
carefully,
as if stepping into your own spine.
The colors rearrange around you,
assigning roles:

this turquoise block is your forgotten hobby,
that pale lilac piece is your capacity to rest,
the bright yellow corner above
is the one decision you never made
and somehow survived anyway.

The floor asks you,
without words:
Do you want to continue
in straight lines,
or shall we try diagonals today?

Your feet answer
before your mind catches up,
drifting slightly left
onto the violet path of detours.

---

Somewhere high up
between lemon and teal
a small unseen loudspeaker
plays elevator music composed
by anxious philosophers.
The melody goes:

being is weird,
time is late,
we’ll stop at every floor
you never planned for.

Every chord opens another rectangle,
a pop-up window in the tower of self.
You catch glimpses:
a childhood afternoon in cyan,
a failed project in industrial grey,
a future friendship glowing lime
behind frosted glass.

You can’t stay everywhere,
so you keep moving,
collecting colors on your shirt
like passport stamps.

---

At the end of the corridor
there is no door,
just a slightly brighter piece of blue
with a smudge of wild pink on it,
like a heartbeat that forgot its boundaries.

Underneath someone—
maybe you from tomorrow,
maybe the invisible janitor of DADA—
has scribbled three lines
in shaky charcoal:

corridor of might-have-been,
I walk you until you blur,
then step out brighter than your walls.

The painting sighs in relief,
grateful to be read
as something other than decor.

Outside, in so-called reality,
a perfectly ordinary hallway waits for you,
beige, fluorescent, yawning.
You look at it once,
and for a split second
see all its hidden magentas and limes
trying to escape.

You wink, silently,
and the yellow in your chest
winks back,
a small architectural rebellion
under a very normal shirt.