aporia suspends the most of existence.
dotted lines ready to be torn, punctured, punched at regular intervals.
the lines of bristles of the brush in the whitewash of my wall,
the holes, where cement peeks, ready to be, savoured.
the drip of water down my neck.
the beautiful patterns underwater that reflection makes, and the want to see beauty while trying to live on one gasp of breath.
kohl just on the outline, sharp,
sometimes there is a lot in the mind of a writer, a lot more than never can be interpreted through words, a lot more that needs touch, and still leaves much to absorb, much porosity.
and sometimes there in not as much as one would like to imagine.
No comments:
Post a Comment