I bought a piece of damaged art.  Art so complex and abstract, with dark colours and rough textures, broken faces and trapped doors. What in past may have been innocent, has now become jaded, corrupted by ideas and devoured by hungry rage.  The tunnel of fate has flushed this paintings’ nature, seduced the purity of its essence.  A master piece has been morphed.  The price has gone up.  The wall space needed for this work of art would be massive, secure, and bullet proof.  The nails will dig deep, this piece will sooner or later feel heavy.

But the pride of showing off this commitment is precious.  It’s tempting and full of promise.  A piece so desirable and unique, others wonder how it was hung so high.  Like a crystal brick in the wall, so rare and contagious, persuasive and mysterious. Perhaps I fell in love with this foggy picture, I adjusted the lens of my perception - clarity now being a boring adventure.

So what stops me from taking this heavy, disturbing painting down?  Do I fear the ladder, panic I will drop this estranged beauty on the ground?  Maybe I enjoy viewing it from such a distance, I neglect what it really would look like up close.  I detach myself from its reality, only to live on in our own anxious dream.  For what exists in this fantasy, is not eternally destructive, it’s illusory and… incredible.

I know the day will come.  The day my walls wear thin.  The nails will get rusty and break, the painting will slip and surrender, and I will catch it… only to realize how much smaller and light it really is.  How beautifully innocent it has come to be.  Colours will be vivid, broken faces turning into blameless smiles, and trapped doors now unlocked.  With its temper diminished and bliss established, it will look vulnerable and foolish, not suitable for my passion craving mind. And I will take this small, uninteresting painting, and throw it away.

And look for a new damaged one to hang on my wall.  

And look for a new person to fix.