A person is running from a door of a house, he is getting out by a wailing gate; he is treading by barefooted soles of feet on asphalt that cooled down, he is tending to forest behind a town. He is measuring out a faraway journey by long steps, he is getting closer to a thoughtful mark in the silence of a rat. The mild summer breeze of the cloudy night is twining a nude body, it is whipping in loops the edges of paintbrushes that are held in a hand. He is wringing a framed canvas under a shoulder to a hip; pulsating because of excitement and coldness simultaneously; a canvas without a spot, innocent. He is wandering apace, any idea escapes from a churning crowd sometimes and it arises from inner space in murmur on a tongue – I am sore. I am sore on myself and my deeds - ; Unwashed unshorn hair is paddling around attentive ears; – On neighborhood, which declaims against me. On parents that protect hypocritical their stereotypical principles. – ; He is breathing deeply and snorting tired on the top of the overborne hill; - On the liars that don’t let me leave them. Run away from those foolish people who consecrated their lives to absurdity. I want to create singularity in art, overthrow those mingy persons by the power of colors and the diversity of shapes. To dispose of the burden of the family engagements and to leave a dissipated world of those, who cumulate only finance and don’t look back upon the beauty of the universe, don’t save nature, don’t see the hurt of human lives no far then on the door-step of their own houses. I am sore and I want to escape. -.
He is getting on soil, which is acid from needles, is treading on fragments of stone with painful hiss, on cones that fell down. The echo of foaming leaves sounds in periodicity of breath. The wooden frame is supporting on a high pine. He is squeezing oil colors from tubes on a smoothly cut stump; a plastic bag will not rustle amongst fingers. They absorb slowly to decaying wood, they will leave behind the lasting print. Snorty treetops appal horrified person; he is looking over his shoulder; way worn, he sat on mossy pillow, bubbles of descending dew evoke tears. The cold of night is stinging the bald skin of naked flesh. He is examining his hands, long toes of feet, he is observing lopsided tops of needle-leaves trees, dark clouds that are crossing the roof of darkness. He is sitting and a stray salt drop run across a chin, barely adult. – I am afraid and I am weeping for pain. I am suddenly chicken-heart. Run away, till the last flicker of hope remains for a unhearing return to a bed. – You have to stand up, that’s what they would like to, that’s what they wish. We mustn’t indulge them it. – I am afraid and I am shaking. What should I do? – Don’t be fooled by threat of pain, discomfort and neediness. Leave that costliness of own needs. Just paint. Just paint! – I will not endure to listen the suffering lamentation of my own hearth, which is roaring in a brain. – Just paint! – All right.; the hearth is thumping wildly.
Excitedness, disconnected moves, scribbling on the canvas; he is splashing color all around, it is dripping in anomalous concentric circles on the leaves that are fell and consumed by soil, on own exposed body. He reminds a madman, who is lost in his chaos, he disturbs the celestial calm of the place by strange sing of false key, which he suddenly began.
He is getting by the crest of the absolute joy and luck, urgently collywobbles damages slightly boundless intoxication with ingoing changing the sky to light. The body is becoming dead-alive; exhaustion. The wakening disc is uplifting slowly upwards; the sunrise; it throws light to eyes, that were inured to huge gloom only with difficulty, finally behold the created.
The person is making the last draw of brush, which falls down from the hand in the end; he finishes the midnight creation, produced berserk in haphazardly appeared moon, like in a mania of a confused werewolf.
Do you smell that scent? Do you fell that tragic, majesty of acts, peerlessness? That unlimited importance of yourself for the first time? – I do. – And now you are the real artist. – Yes, I am. – Now you can get down your production. Close that ambrosial effort. – I will.
He is turning the picture, he is pulling down string, which is gripped on the back side of it. Meter tape from woven wire. He is sewing up a standing trunk with monkey cattiness, he is finding himself on the top of the tree in a moment. He is twining the rope around a wrist, he is tightening a knar with power and he is whipping the second end of it around a salient branch.
It is not allowed to break a strong connection.
Legs, enmeshed in clasp behind the trunk, are loosening the grasp, the body is swaying, hung on to the hand, the arm is getting deflect slowly from the juncture. Weak groaning, no clamour.
I had got fire inside of myself – it glares on the canvas now. – We ourselves are the one artwork now. – Yes, I am.
The end of exhalation, the silence is coughed down by murmur of treetop. The beginning day closed up.