Five alive

The armoured casing of the dynamic abstractness was showcased during the exhibition. There was no other competition other than a few petty challengers who wished to pay tribute to nostalgia; it was not even worthy of mention.

Five canvases were rolled neatly into the walled cement. These were the ideals they were looking after and looking out for. There was a distinction between these two opposing marks.

One was of the contemporary sort. Au naturel. Not much going on except the obvious. There was no apparent flaw except everything and nothing. There was no right and there was no wrong. Anything made everything godly repulsive. The paradox of creation, which in itself is the essence of life.

The second was more attractive in terms of attention to detail. The Spanish dilemma. El conquistador. The one that got away. The thing that kept the fire burning, and due to that burned on in itself. It brought demise upon its own with its unflattering wave of tensions that were a bit too much for its own good. It was a lost cause for a just intention. Thus began melancholia as a breeze of fresh air.

Third involves the juvenile state of schizophrenia. Asperger. With its limited empathy towards the concrete, it desires its 'own' however much you define it. This twisted dark imagery is a torrent of ideas that come gushing through towards the abysmal oesophageal tract of the fragile state of mind. It devours the common denominator among all of its prey; physical clumsiness.

The next one was a special rite in its own right. The traditional poetic. The type of which is aspired for. The one that demands strict inspiration to culprit. This one, Sensitivo. Not much to say about it except that the colour and shape of each strokes are so meticulously planned that the overbearing emotion that strikes its view is left to wonder how such a marvel became so stale in the process. In such a sad description, I wonder how long a time this madness will this innocent victim will suffer. A short and painful death, I reckon.

Monochrome. The incomplete full set, they say. Such joyful impact you deliver, such passion and endless reasoning flow through me like water from ink. You are doomed from the start. Noir has long been ageing and dying. You are not part of the exception. You are the epiphany to say we are and will continue on struggling.

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