Beyond tranquility

A line, infinite, steady and straight flows across a plane, three dimensional and soft, with no true horizon. The line,

black as night, moving without moving, collides with itself, or is it another? A mass of squiggles

erupts, chaotic but oddly comforting, and then once again the line bursts forth, or is it another? This line disappears

out of my field of vision, but I’m calm. I see the planes horizon, which is not a

horizon, soft and nearly fuzzy. A sense of tranquility envelopes me, invades me, infects me. In those fleeting

moments I know truth, truth without meaning, without reason. Truth without

truth. Inescapable. But I do not wish to escape, I wish to stay, to wander, to wonder.

This is all, incomprehensible but still so simple, so pure. A world, a plane, a line. Black, white. Then I, the

only color, devoid of color, I see myself while I am myself, watching, seeing,

experiencing, knowing and not knowing, wishing it not to end. But it must, it does, lost in my

void. Such is my dream.


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For the Intermittent Writer


Short books about albums. Published by Bloomsbury.

The Wink

This Week in Kink

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