Updated: A Story of a Painting

Edited and revised version of my story of a painting. Not sure which I prefer. 

There is a deep red; plush and runny. Next to it a purple, dressed in white. It smears me across its surface.

A glance upward and beyond reveals an isolated glow of mint green, which exists blurred and murky.

That purple-white unsettles. Its vagueness; the smudginess drains my eyes. Squinting to find form, object, surface, I am faced with nothing. It sits like a heavy fog, a silt-filled pool.

I am blind.

There is a consuming feeling of wide-awakeness; a tension that halves me.

Forms erupt with vulgarity and heaviness. Bloody, clotted mounds arise from a vaporous haze, interrupted by sharp cliffs of black and grey.

Ghostly traces of white slide like mucus, or the deposits of a slug.

Things are erased by that awful, engulfing blankness, yet just as quickly they jut with clear intention. I am unsafe.

That little glow of green beckons me, evoking a strange feeling.

Unintentionally, I gravitate towards it, eyes fixed, fearful of its existence as nothing more than an illusion. Something about its tiny peeping presence makes it twinkle amidst the violent swarms of red and purple.

Is it light?

Is it hope?

It is suspended, isolated. It ebbs and pulses.

Quickly shifting it is barely visible, submerged beneath that oozy, dank, weeping red.

Is it nothing?

Is it something?

I realise what it must be to feel drawn to danger.

Consider:

a moth to a flame

an insect to a light

a fly to a Venus.

I climb upward towards its gentle, sparkling rhythm.

I scramble over harsh black contours that dip in and then out.

I push through the sticky, viscid red that sucks me in and swirls me around.

I slip and slide between a thin, translucent white.

Ahead of me exist jagged lines of lilac and violet, flung around a ground of black.

Lines cross, jump, drip and swell. I am forced toward a mass of furied marks; a sea of danger.

I stumble upon the rutted surface.

A screeching black bursts from a pool of throbbing blue, hurling me in every direction.

I land in a vast expanse of white that sucks in and breathes out; it is a form that engulfs my own; my breath breathes in with it and out with air I cannot choose.

I writhe, fold and struggle.

I continue to push closer to that compelling green

alluring and imaginary.

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About Becca (73 Articles)
Founder of Art's the Word. Blogs for Art's the Word, Native Monster,The Shipping Forecast & Callaby Magazine.

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