Thursday, October 19, 2006


The wary quietness of the trees around me is driving my constituent bolts of nerves insane.
Again, the chain of my bike has fallen out and since I am completely exhausted by the amount of cycling I’ve done today, I have stalled on the decision to finally…. get some rest.
Unhurriedly, I go onto the grass and pick up a few leaves which have been blown by the wind in my direction. As I look around me, however, I take notice of the contrast between the greyish-green scenery around me and a small, almost undetectable patch of bright violet which I assumed it to be the ultra-reflective surface belonging to the raincoat of a person.
I hurry towards the lightspot so as to see who it is, aware of the isolation of the place and vulnerability that it subtly emanates.
Flowers can be so obstinately insistent of their attraction and this is the ultimate cause of their downfall.
With this thought in mind, I acknowledge myself to the person who I discover to be of no potential harm but quite the contrary.
It is a 50ish aged woman who like the flowers around her, sits unpretentiously, quietly disguising the importance of why she’s at this place, at this precise moment.

She’s simply drawing the rainy, secluded landscape surroundings and thus I know I am in for a certain meaningful conversation.
She looks up and smiles in what seems to me a state of a pretty, sincere emotional impetus that has been working overtime today. Yep, that’s what art does to you.
Anyway, I sit next to her and we begin discussing her drawings and I disclose the fact that I, myself am into art and drawing.
What captures my fullest attention however about her sketches is that they are all black & white. Not even a single obvious hint of colour and indeed, I think greycolour or black & white drawings hold something special and haunting which virtually always rings the bell of mystery and wakes my soul up.
Suddenly, however, she strangely breaks into tears and begins a stealth – like crying which seems so prolonged that I decide to leave her alone and head back to the spot where I rather carelessly left my bike.
Before, I go though, I take one last glance of the current sketch she’s making and to my most utter shock, as though my eyes have been pulled out of their sockets, I hold on to a nearby tree so as to prevent my body from collapsing on itself.
Her sketch has been transformed into a watercolour masterpiece which even Turner himself would have been envious of.
Was it her tears that did it? Like, flowers, however, emotions can be obstinately insistent on their own attraction and can be the ultimate cause of your own downfall.
Mesmerized, as I head towards my bike, or supposedly the spot where I effectively disposed of it, I am yet again stunned to find that it’s gone.
No even a trace of it anywhere to be seen.
The density of the trees around looks down on me and I realise the pointlessness of plundering in desperate search for it.
My final conclusion:
DOWN WITH ART!!!!!!!!!!

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