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Medium: oil Size: 22" x 28" Title: the clock
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WE ARE LEAVES BEFORE THE WIND; DRIFTING, THROUGH DISTANCES OF SPACE AND TIME; TO ARROGATE SELF; TO EXTEND THE MEAN, TO ASPIRE BEYOND THAT CONCLUDING POINT OF EACH BREATH, IS FALLACIOUS, A POINTLESS PRETENSE: HONOR HAS NO PLACE EITHER; THE LITTLE, OR THE BIG FLAME, IT IS ALL THE SAME. WE WARRANT ONLY THE SPECTRE OF DEATH ITSELF; A HOVERING, YES, RELUCTANT IMAGE; THE FADING AWAY; WE ARE ENTWINED IN OUR SPECIOUS LOGIC; A GOLD FISH IN A BOWL, UNAWARE OF THE DIMENSIONS AROUND US; AND THAT WE BELIEVE THERE IS SUBSTANCE BEYOND LIFE. IT IS A BALM OFFERED TO THE DYING: A SOFTENING TOUCH; FINGERS ARE GRIPPED ONLY MARGINALLY; GRASPING, NOT SURE; UNAPPEALING; THE FUTURE HOLDS; IT HANGS, AND, AT THE END, GROTESQUELY. AND WELL IT SHOULD: WHO CARES? THERE IS NO SUITABLE ANSWER; WE LEAVE BEHIND ONLY SCATTERED REMNANTS; IT APPEARS ORDERED, BUT IT IS NOT. THE IREGULARITIES CONTINUE TO THE END; THE ORDEAL IS NOT ALWAYS THE SAME: IT CAN BE IMMEDIATE, CREEPING, OR PROLONGED; NO ONE IS BETTER THAN THE OTHER. NO CHOICE IS PREFERRED; IT IS NOT EVEN CONSIDERED: WE PLACE RATIONALE FIRST: HOW FOOLISH! THE CRY OF THE WILD BEAST TRAPPED; HIS HEART BROKEN BY HIS FATE. |
