Written Works of Abstract Art

My Heartache.

I am sitting with my back to a tree.

I am the girl who sits in the dark of the early morning. Just sitting, and feeling.

I listen to the others in the field, chattering and laughing.

But it all just disappears, as I close my eyes in the blue grey darkness, the dark silhouette of trees behind me. When I open them, I am alone, sitting, cross legged in the middle of the field.

All I can hear is the quiet rush of wind in the grass.

I stare up at a sky merging black and grey. No stars.

The field I am in, it is small, but infinite. The grass is hard, and grows in tufts. I close my eyes again, and when I open them I am lying on my side in the darkness of the trees. No one looks for me, but I see their black shapes against the bonfire in the distance. It is red and yellow and orange, but it is not there. Not to me. Everything is so familiar and strange. It is cool, and I feel a kind of light weight inside me. The ground is hard and uncomfortable, but I don't mind.

I stretch out, and look behind me, through the dark trees. I see a sort of avenue through them. I rise, slowly, and enter the trees, looking behind me to see who is watching. Nobody, and the last sound I hear is the faint crackle of the fire and the muffled voices.

I walk through the trees slowly, but gaining speed, and although I am perfectly balanced, I constantly feel like I will stumble and fall. I walk along the avenue, feeling dizzy, but as I reach the end of the trees, I find myself facing another field. This one spreads out across very far, and I can not see where it ends in the distance. All I can see are the black shapes of mountains, far far away. I turn around one last time, and see a tall lamp post at the edge of the trees, glowing with a yellowed light, yet I cast no shadow. The sharp cry of a curlew is the signal that the world is waking up. So I must leave.

I run out into the clearing, heading straight for the mountain, and can hear nothing but my heavy footsteps and the rush of wind out here in the grass. Though the noise of the curlew grown fainter, it does so slowly and never quite disappears. I run, and run, heading for the mountains, as the dawn comes. As long I can make it there, the dawn will never come.

But as I run, I begin to stumble more, and I feel dizzy and slow.

The cry of the curlew echoes around the field, and the wind stops rustling the grass.

As I stumble again and again, I see my shadow on the ground, stumbling with me.

I do not cry out, because I do not want anyone to hear me, to find me and break this spell. Though the mountains never come any nearer, I find myself running towards another lot of dark trees, silhouetted black against the grey of the sky. I can not run, not because I'm tired, but because the light weight inside me has grown, and I stumble. I fall down on the ground, and feel as if I'm still falling, even though I am still. I drag myself over to a tree, and lean against it, my heart racing. Slowly the lightness comes back, the weight disappears.

I just sit there, listening and feeling. Over in the distance is the bonfire, yellow, orange and red, and the silhouettes of chattering people.

They are there, but do not notice me.