I’m not worried about what lies above,
I am concerned with what emerges.
How meaning comes to be.
How lines and dots and shadow
come to resemble memories
and are extinguished once you’re gone.
Why they bleed slowly,
seeping through the fabric of your life
and colour everything,
whether you welcomed them or not.
How something so benign and light and smooth can be so harmful,
how colour indicates so many contradictory things.
One day the pendulum swings, and rivets squeak and mad squeals echo,
because there’s life back there somewhere,
life that you made and that you love.
Next, nothing but the buzzing wind,
The former sounds shipped away or broken.
So tell me,
In which direction was I traveling when you stopped me?
It will help me find my way.