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Description
The blood was still on my hands.
Tired of running miles and miles, shoes covered with dust, mud on my heels and black thoughts in my head. Heavy breath, the violent wind in my hair. The smells, the sounds, the images, everything mixed up and swirled as if a tornado had taken over all the bits and pieces. If I were more sensitive, I'd certainly faint, or at least lay down. Lay down and wait for ravens or other animals to have a feast of my body. But it wasn't a fate for me. This I knew - I'm going to wear this scar for the rest of my life. I've killed the man.
Noticing that I was far enough and quite safe for the time being, I took a deep breath and now I was walking some unknown, country road. I calmed myslef down, minute after minute. The river must have taken the body with its tide, I thought. They won't find it today. The sun is about to set.
I didn't care much for anything from my current surrounding. The poor, dirty houses, some church, a dog barking, children playing football at the yard and swearing. Their language was as vulgar, as if they have just left the local jail after spending at least a couple of months in one cell with a mad serial killer. Someone quite like me, in fact. It wasn't a pleasant thought.
As I sunk deeper and deeper into my dark despair, which only an hour ago I have expected to be a relief, I saw a marvelous view. Almost surreal in the golden light of the setting sun, behind the row of old, bare trees, was a chapel. But not just any chapel. It wouldn't have taken my interest otherwise.
The gothic shape, scratched and damaged by the passing of the time, greeted me with narrow windows, empty as if they were the holes in a skull. I approached it, almost bewitched by its threatening beauty.
Without a second thought, I stepped inside. I was afraid of no risk on that memorable afternoon. Not anymore.
The interior was empty, except for a few crashed bricks and loads of dust. No holy images on the walls, no altar, not even a cross. Friedrich would have fallen in love with this place immediately, I thought, looking around with fascination and delight. If you're planning your own death, you couldn't have found a better place. If you're looking for an inspiration, here it is, within these walls. If you long for peace of mind, you'll find it here.
But my hands were shaking too violently to be able to create a work of art. It crossed my mind that I shall never paint anything, ever again. Good reason to say goodbye to my lousy life, I thought with sorrow. Still, I was more a coward than a frustrated artist, or even than a guilty muredrer.
Who knows what the next day will bring. I shall rest here tonight.

I've written a story. Don't know why, don't know what for. The gloom has taken over me, I guess.

I love ruins. And I completely fell in love with this tiny chapel, which was once a part of an old palace at the countryside. A perfect place for an inspiration indeed.

Włostów, Poland
April 2010

Description
The blood was still on my hands.
Tired of running miles and miles, shoes covered with dust, mud on my heels and black thoughts in my head. Heavy breath, the violent wind in my hair. The smells, the sounds, the images, everything mixed up and swirled as if a tornado had taken over all the bits and pieces. If I were more sensitive, I'd certainly faint, or at least lay down. Lay down and wait for ravens or other animals to have a feast of my body. But it wasn't a fate for me. This I knew - I'm going to wear this scar for the rest of my life. I've killed the man.
Noticing that I was far enough and quite safe for the time being, I took a deep breath and now I was walking some unknown, country road. I calmed myslef down, minute after minute. The river must have taken the body with its tide, I thought. They won't find it today. The sun is about to set.
I didn't care much for anything from my current surrounding. The poor, dirty houses, some church, a dog barking, children playing football at the yard and swearing. Their language was as vulgar, as if they have just left the local jail after spending at least a couple of months in one cell with a mad serial killer. Someone quite like me, in fact. It wasn't a pleasant thought.
As I sunk deeper and deeper into my dark despair, which only an hour ago I have expected to be a relief, I saw a marvelous view. Almost surreal in the golden light of the setting sun, behind the row of old, bare trees, was a chapel. But not just any chapel. It wouldn't have taken my interest otherwise.
The gothic shape, scratched and damaged by the passing of the time, greeted me with narrow windows, empty as if they were the holes in a skull. I approached it, almost bewitched by its threatening beauty.
Without a second thought, I stepped inside. I was afraid of no risk on that memorable afternoon. Not anymore.
The interior was empty, except for a few crashed bricks and loads of dust. No holy images on the walls, no altar, not even a cross. Friedrich would have fallen in love with this place immediately, I thought, looking around with fascination and delight. If you're planning your own death, you couldn't have found a better place. If you're looking for an inspiration, here it is, within these walls. If you long for peace of mind, you'll find it here.
But my hands were shaking too violently to be able to create a work of art. It crossed my mind that I shall never paint anything, ever again. Good reason to say goodbye to my lousy life, I thought with sorrow. Still, I was more a coward than a frustrated artist, or even than a guilty muredrer.
Who knows what the next day will bring. I shall rest here tonight.

I've written a story. Don't know why, don't know what for. The gloom has taken over me, I guess.

I love ruins. And I completely fell in love with this tiny chapel, which was once a part of an old palace at the countryside. A perfect place for an inspiration indeed.

Włostów, Poland
April 2010