All I have are words

The patterns, they started off beautifully. Unlike the rigid structure of jigsaw puzzles, these tesselations, they weaved in and out in intricate thoughts. They rose and fell to the blood flow patterns. They were reminiscent of sparks of neuronal excitement. Signature squiggles that were hanging like vines you could tug at, to be whisked away into another land of light reflected off broken shards of glass. Look up to the sky and see, star showers filling up the voids of these patterns. You can see them all around, swirling about in streams of black ink. They convey a sense of urgency – as if they know you are observing them. Yet as you trace them, all you feel is being lost. You want to know how it feels to move from swirling eddies to the sharp angles as the vision shifts from black and white to sepia. The patterns have a balance of their own, gravitating towards what you perceive as random flecks in the space. And they flow on, like the calm laps of the silent creek. They foster a colour and a form of life along their path. You would follow it, if only you could see the path, hidden beneath the fallen leaves and other stories.

The artist is back at the canvas. Feeling their way across the curved canvas, encircling, in hopes of new muses. Listening to stories never heard before. Stories that you should know. And so begins the daunting travel, creating new footprints in the sand, embellished with the earlier patterns. They were overlays, almost holographic ciphers, yet taken only at face value. There are no variables to the artist, all of the creations are the same stories, seen through different prisms. The journey through each of them so obvious, yet oblivious to you.

You are still staring. Lost. All I have are these words to help you see, but what good is it if you cannot understand?

She followed the horizon, letting herself drown in a spray of ocean-mist to find out more than she could possibly comprehend. She knew there was more to all of this, just hoping for that one magical verse to put it all in its place. The wind brought to her new sounds, not perhaps noise, but melancholy tones that drowned the other sounds. She switched course to this new ocean, unfettered by changes in destination. In fact, don’t they all lead to the same place?  Awkward senses of breaking the reverie shook her – where did one world end and the other begin?

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