It is more than simply talking. It is more than thinking about windows. Picture this, for here is where I’ve been and for all this while. Here is the very place I have recently left.
Here was never. Not settled but for ever similar to seeing through a looking glass, watching for a reflection of the mind. Like someone stretched, this is a faceless portrait, grainy, without grace.
Here I have the look of a gazed being, showing neither contentment or honesty. Here you see no glimmer, no proof of life, no proof other than perhaps a ghostly image conjured out of the realm of a disjointed imagination, A phantasm of proton gradient architecture, being just another needle in just another haystack, stacked at the end of just another equation. And not even looking like a wordsmith, I command no attention from anyone. I figure in no ones plan. I configure myself in the far corner of existence. I arm wrestle my soul to the ground every now and again and refract my marrow in Oxygen. This way I am become toxic and reactive even to myself. My words are thus ignited by the passing flow of Consciousness, and the blue flame of delight.
Here is where I am come to. It is not my grave.
©2020 Christopher Thompson (words and pictures). All rights reserved.
Picture 2, Buckland Brewer, Devon.