And I will meet thee in as many shapes where we may so transfuse our wand’ring souls out at our lips
Perhaps my life is being ruled by some malevolent character, not of my own making. The trickster who is all radiating megalomaniac. A power trip of the highest order.
Even with that, I cannot create myself into a victim.
I am no sycophant prone to obsequious grand gestures. I will not have my thumbs cut off for anyone.
I found that even the concept of myself is not a concrete one. I am fluid too.
So it seems I collect all my crushes in jellybean jars.
In my dreams I am running through puddles strewn about by late Autumn showers, still sticky.
I am running to catch another figment, this time an object of my love so deserving that the strength of my passion leaves me panting, not the splashes nor the jog.
This love is so immediate, so organic, so spiritual that I am yet to really feel it but in long nights laid prone.
How could I feel anything but intensity for a blind photographer? A blind photographer who feels pictures into being.
A blind love that sees better than I do.