something which was left after the object was cut out.
The object of the sentence, it’s been omitted.
Where are the boundaries on the work of art?
Where ever you draw them, maybe.
If you choose only to see what’s there, framed by light and shadow which expertly direct your eye to the contours of the object, then you wander through the alleys of your memory to retrieve the closest object or box of objects that you’ve seen before.
You spend a millisecond playing with it all like a jigsaw puzzle.
A few years ago you would’ve lingered there, scraping the void against all possible aberrances.
Now your attention is made fickle by the jolts of electric impulses,
sparks flying everywhere nonstop nonstop nonstop
and when they stop it’s a relief so sensual, you are as aware of your precious numbered days as you will ever be.
Yet in that quiet stillness you forget to focus, and that means all is lost.
When I come up from the water I forget to breath. Or maybe I do breath unintentionally. I must or else I’d die, but I forget to enunciate to punctuate. My exhales are blaring sirens, staining the dark with fluorescent glow. Ineffable sound, and in it’s echo I hear nothing. It scares me worse than the thought of annihilation at the hands of this wicked shore break.
But where are the lines? Are they as imaginary as they seem, shifting with the balance of chemicals, of hormones and toxins, inhibitors and exstinguishers, the personalities in the room, their energy. It’s not a field like a bubble. It’s a diffuse particulate that weaves into all other present objects. Sometimes it is yet indistinguishable from the object itself, but more and more I can see them in the objects that surround them.
Take my picture, and if we are lucky something of the field will be perceptible down the line. Luck. Luck has nothing to do with it. We are blinded by the idea of luck. Blinded by the object. The very object intended to show us something, we see it in shadow, but with the light on the shape becomes ordinary. The boundaries reconform and it’s not time that constrains them in it’s sticky grid of arrows, they are weightless through time, like mirrors reflecting thousands of falling feathers where in reality there is only one.