Restless in And The Rest.

A distracted wide-eyed gaze into that purpled-petrol glaze; that plasma-ball of possibility, an iridescent volatility; crackling cobalt electricity. Cerulean-blue refracted hues; silent sirens in cyan backlight an illusion, the dissolution of internal confusion without conclusion. Shattered neon lightning bolts vibrate vivid flares; a visible current through that empty air, beneath glass as thin as bubble-skin, so far contained but untapped and untrained; its suspenseful essential potential: exponential.

Electricity- that energy- is a surging impossible force; irresistible power to create its own course, it can leap through a vacuum or light up a sea; its crackling snapping lightning-whips can rip open the sky or can render you blind, it can overwhelm and undermine. Fractured-fractal branchlines- blinding bright- can realign or redesign; the pixellation of imagination, the frailty of invocation; that breathless want for variation.

In recognition of ignition, that friction- the frisson of nuclear fission- is this an admission of craving transition; a secret submission to unspoken ambition; a warning spark, a premonition? All that I am is an apparition, an exhibition without definition; constrained and conditioned by my own inhibitions, a constant confusion of redefinition, repositioned and reconditioned, I have so many faces; I don’t recognise a single one.

Supine in a sea of my own disconnection; picking faces at random from my plastic selection, each one a falsehood, a candy confection. Is this a deception or just a deflection, a form of protection; save the world, or myself, from my obscene reflection? All that I am is a man-made craft, whittled and sanded to a bland work of art; all that I am, an artificial construct- can plastic fingertips still conduct?

An onion is only collections of layers, there’s nothing beneath when you peel them away; there is nothing inside, there is no hidden prize, only the stinging burn scalding your eyes. These peeling paper pieces I so freely give away, hand out like candy every day, they’re not pieces of me, not reality; they’re just flattery and fripperies, scattered like ashes with flippancy.

Perhaps I learn too readily, forever watching steadily: I study, analyse, and absorb; then repeat, replicate, and conform; always transforming, always performing- in taking the shapes of the holes I call home, I am left the hollow knowledge: I have no form of my own. I am a mannequin, a coathanger, a vessel for the vestments of my chosen investments; I’m shiftless but shamelessly restless, today; I want to screw up this canvas and throw it away.

I want to run barefoot or fall through cold air, jump from the clifftop just to find out what’s there; I want risk or adventure, or just something new… the water will deepen- the moment I weaken- but I can’t help but crave it; that reckless feckless footloose freedom.