Wandering round unspecified figures in the blank of whiteness, I feel like I never left the spot I first defiled. Stroking the starter’s ‘I’, I fall into o’s crater and quarrel with my r, to hover back over an insolent little i. Say my name for I am wandering still.
What has been deprived of morality and bias becomes pure logic: facts without origin, like capital letters standing immovably over their line just to fulfill a baseless criterion that forbids resting. Unaltered chords exist in every passion. To make them but quiver, our lives are spent. As such, we are instruments without a player, seeking a compatible person. Playing us means music. Music invokes change. The changed sense no longer wishes to return. To choose one state is to forsake another. What has life been for me until now? I can’t remember.
Useless… but so am I. Embraced by a cold sheet of paper, I feel I’ve attained nothing nor yet lost anything to the railings of ink penetrating the canvas. Useless… but so is every other art. Excused by its artist, though, I find its form very refining. So I paint you across pages of my memory. The artificial background palls your beauty. I’m just not satisfied.
Vines of light streak into the surface of your eye. Their secret is well provisioned. From tiny oceans of blue only that becomes apparent. What could that dishonest smile mean? A contrast to an indifferent semblance? But then, who would seek to undo perfection when so glamorously portrayed? Reclining peacefully, the island of thought must have easily surrendered to the ‘native’; features: eyes, nose, and lips: all betrothed to approbation.
It’s meaningless to love. I can’t see you at all. That’s right… I wonder why. Maybe a savage hope latched itself unto me; maybe my eyes are just not the same… why? You were there. If I asked, would you have told me? But there’s no way I could ask, knowing it’s too late.
Art is an excusable sin; a pardonable deportment. I commit to art. As a father sows manner into the slightest gestures of his children, I inherit my soul to this piece. Perhaps this will come to no avail, but so does everything in this world eventually wither and disappear.