I don’t know what I’m seeing. Neither light nor shadow is enough to prove to me that anything is real. Is truth. Words don’t help either. Labels. The arrogance of names lies in their power to reduce. But identity is not existence. A name is just a fleeting, ever-changing reflection. What I see, from moment to moment, is the same – like the patterns of leaves on the surface of a pond.
Forms seem to possess spirit. Qualities of texture, color, geometry – they seem to convey stories. I realize now my mind sees stories in everything it beholds with my eyes. I need stories. I don’t know what I’m seeing so I invent. Or do I conjure? Nothing seems real, no matter how solid. I struggle to believe in the reality of anything I witness, no matter how wide and vehement the consensus. Say whatever you want. I’m at the point where words mean nothing. Where seeing is far from believing. I think now the blind may be among the most blessed.
But I don’t trust any of my senses. Not even touch. Not even the pinch test of dreams. I believe the tips of the fingers are merely primitive eyestalks that sense but light and shadow. Binaries that guide us onward toward what? I see cracks in the mud so I think I know a thing about a smudge in the Earth. I can tell a story about water and drought. I can muse on Mandelbrot and geometry and the hidden patterns in nature, in us. I can see boot prints and weave together a narrative wherein man enters and leaves his mark. I see Neil Armstrong here in the ordered symmetry of soles and White Fang in the impressions left by a dog. I’m a tracker too, so I read the ground like a stone tablet. Trackers piece together stories from the physical effects left by the presence of some living creature. And there’s a whole alphabet here to decipher if one chooses to believe in the veracity of signs, of light and shadow and lines.
I don’t anymore. I don’t know what I’m seeing. The camera only confirms this. So-called proof. Fractals go on and on no matter how deep you get. There is no bottom. The Latin root is fractus; which means ragged or broken. My eyes are broken. The world is ragged and I cannot see. Look:
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