Imagine; a place where we walk on water, or on planks of wood. I’ve always imagined my mind like so, archaic ripples carrying several images at once, or maybe just one big stretching picture. The inane feeling of passing along these halls, or plains- it was a puzzling thought in such a familiar scene. The fish below, blood-shod and inked, all have names and a breath of their own. Yet each creature in this oblivion is not a possession. If they were, there is always that constant feeling that they were not mine.

A gnarled theory, that slowly began it’s mockery, as realization could not help but dawn on me. It is snaring, the whole ordeal, the sea reflecting sickening images, non-fiction. A blur of lights, of licking reality. An idea, too distant to fear it, yet close enough for misplaced anguish, to others.

The feeling of disregard, of hollowness… It urges me to keep wandering, in this place of shaping. An old man’s “passion” of those modern things he cannot understand, beyond the lettering and paper.