Stanislaw Herman Lem. The antinovel.              

Alexander Art, Abstract idealism, abstract paintings, non-figurative paintings
Alexander Art, Abstract idealism, abstract paintings, non-figurative paintings
Alexander Art, Abstract idealism, abstract paintings, non-figurative paintings
Alexander Art, Abstract idealism, abstract paintings, non-figurative paintings
Alexander Art, Abstract idealism, abstract paintings, non-figurative paintings
Alexander Art, Abstract idealism, abstract paintings, non-figurative paintings
Alexander Art, Abstract idealism, abstract paintings, non-figurative paintings
Alexander Art, Abstract idealism, abstract paintings, non-figurative paintings
Alexander Art, Abstract idealism, abstract paintings, non-figurative paintings
Alexander Art, Abstract idealism, abstract paintings, non-figurative paintings
Alexander Art, Abstract idealism, abstract paintings, non-figurative paintings
Alexander Art, Abstract idealism, abstract paintings, non-figurative paintings
Alexander Art, Abstract idealism, abstract paintings, non-figurative paintings
Alexander Art, Abstract idealism, abstract paintings, non-figurative paintings
Alexander Art, Abstract idealism, abstract paintings, non-figurative paintings
Alexander Art, Abstract idealism, abstract paintings, non-figurative paintings

Entry point   

Thought. Bright. Not for long. Cracks inside.An odd, thin black alarm inside. I begin to feel a little shy. Our eyes meet. A decision. Fast. I'm going – no. No to his no is yes. Victory. Good.

Trouble, will it leave, wear off, dissolve? Probably not. Okay, let it remain until his next no.

I like almost burnt. Inside – some kind of holes, gaps. At times it's dull somewhere, white elsewhere, rigid, cold and seemingly insurmountable. But do not give up!I must keep on trying to break through. But if I win, what awaits me there?

The illusion of the top flight, reflections about the meaning of life, dreams about the birth within me of lofty ideas – all this I lose, when he comes and gradually fills everything with his presence.

Thick lines, strange and irregular, almost laughing. I don't know.

I don't know, what should I do with it? While in the distance nasty stains of alarm emerge.

My hardly gestated plans finally burst forth, and plopped down on the subtle articulation of colors, under which are suspended the lines of my possibilities. Their fluctuations are the beginning of the movement toward success.

How crudely, foolish and cruel everything is divided. My thoughts are oppressed, trying to get out, but they are not let out. Who does not let them out? It is I. So maybe it is I who is crude, foolish and cruel?

I don't know. I don't know anything.

This corner of my heart was scratched, mauled. He inflicted the first deepest wounds in the middle of my emotions, and then I every day I wounded myself... so as not to heal, to remember. Maybe by now it's enough? IT IS NOT ENOUGH! NO, deeper still until it hurts, until it hurts. IT IS NOT ENOUGH!

The conglomeration of these unnecessary bizarre symbols come up against color, they are mixed together and disappear.They make it awkward, but their leapfrog is funny.

Why is a mess of lines and colors, this minute but powerful binge of feelings needed? He scares me and beckons, beckons .... enough, I've had enough of these feelings !!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And what do I need this for?

Where am I to run? What do I do?

Or should I leave it as is? But if I leave it as is, soon nothing at all will remain. Or is this how it has to be?

I would like clarity and brightness, and around me is fog and confusion in the color, in my head. To break through? To win? I have to, but how? All that is bright and positive starts to disintegrate and slowly fall into the green depth of ambiguity.

The tangled unspoken phrases were suddenly attacked by drops and clots. Microbursts, dissolutions, mutual penetrations. To look at it for a long time without taking my eyes away and breathing deeply is some strange kind of pleasure.

Beautifully. Anxiously.

Uncharacteristically. Unusually.

The dark tangles sink into the red.

The emerging islands bear missives.

It's a pity that they're not for me.

The clouding of repulsive uncertainty in myself gradually pushes out all my bright feelings, exposing the heartfelt wounds.

I must pull myself together, stand up and start to live again.

Must I?I MUST!!!

 

Pierced. Wounded. Scratched.

All internal reliefs have been worn down, from the living white love all that remains is the unsightly gray remains.

 

On the one living good thought another is superimposed. I do not know the how much I can take. Mental patches, silly, childish, but not yet terrible.

 

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