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Trauma or Art?

I stood in front of the door. One that seemed familiar yet I hadnever seen it before. Wooden slabs of the villagehouse. I could feel the texture of the wood grain underneath my fingers. As I touched itI moved into the different realm, century that should be forever banished yet I sipped in without protection. Places where I had no entry yet it lured me to stay.


The smell was familiar yet it didn't belong. I stretched my brain to accept it. There are leaves soaking late summer sun releasing soft green aroma. Smell of the earth bathing in heat. Just before autumn enters and claims the falling victims. The last dance of the life. The smell of the fear. So many would fall brownishing grounds with the rotten bodies. The smell of the decay. The sound of the scare.


Death entered the village and rewrote the past and the future. Froze the present in not existence.



And there stood a boy in the middle of the river streaming pain paralysed by the finality...


When he looked up at the soft clouds he could almost forget the reality. He could travel into the universe of harmless stars, explore the vibrant galaxies of unknown and safe. The watercolour painting of the sky. And he would allow the soft film of new painted reality to cover his mind, make him forget for a little. Take away the loneliness and powerlessness. And so he could stay bit safer for a bit longer. In a place where there was no pain. Place where he would accept himself just as he was. Place and time where people he knew still existed and waited for him to return safely. Would feed his hunger, comfort his pain and stay forever. And so he made them stay. Keep them under life support as long as he lived. Yet sometimes the surface of the reality would crack and reveal the pain. Death and rejection. Overwhelming loneliness. And before he would resume the life support there was a moment of overflowing anger. Loud scream of the falling bombs taking lives away. Engraving images into his wide open retinas. Memorizing each detail. Oh how much he hated the uncomfortable feeling of reality. How upset he would be. How much energy it would take to erase the feeling and bring the blurred peace. How many victims it would claim on the path to self preservation. The war that never stopped. Passed to the future generations as a given solution.



Non questionable pill to ever defeatingbattles.There was a boy again. He stood and forgot why he fought so hard. He couldn't remember what he was fighting. He only knew the pain and the anger. Ammo for the future battles. And his shield grew harder with each passing life.He wasn't himself anymore. He was paralysedin the past. Cord never cut, rottening asthe extension of his body.No connection just a heavy dead rope dragging rubble of the never-forgotten. Bone collection.


With the sound of falling leaves and the stream of the river.


There is a boy...

Wojtek London Art

M:   0044 7733443588

E:  wojtek78@hotmail.com

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