(This writing burst was to be Inspired by surrealist pictures. The painting Julie handed out to me is by Belgian surrealist artist René Magritte and is entitled 'Decalcomania.' I decided to give this one a mysterious melancholy tone to reflect the ambiguous nature of surrealism.)
Staring out at the sea, now he’s here the introspective reflection of his mind is spurred onwards into overdrive. What exactly is it that is out there on the periphery? What kind of nonsensical otherworldly wonders would he find just beyond the limits of what the eye can see, he asks himself.
Surely there is more to the sea than the ocean. He stands in silence: a solitary insignificant black smudge on the horizon to any other viewpoint than his own. The ocean, he concludes, is such an allusion to his own version of the reality that is his life itself – at present so still and calm , yet at the same time ever-changing after the single moment of time in which he is living in has passed. An infinity of minute details underneath the currently tranquil composed surface. Anything could be happening in the depths of this unexplored utopia: a thought his mind finds strenuous to comprehend. The choice he has yet to make ripples through his stream of consciousness once more. Yes or no. In clear black and white, the two different futures spread out ahead of him like two distinct paths: he is standing stock still at the crossroad.
Like a play. Like two different states of mind; the contradictory state of reality being much more like what he has watched onstage than its counterpart of sitting in that theatre. Like life is all one great show in which the living postulate their outward exterior to such great extents that what is underneath this surface act is forgotten. It is all an act: he knows this too well.
A new thought penetrates his mind. The melancholy white noise of possibility interweaved with the conflicting probability is all that plays around his head: like a picture split down the middle showing the two different outcomes of this particular choice, he stands for a timeless age thinking. So if this life is indeed a play: what if it was, say, to be cut, he wonders. Removing a single fragment of its internal structure by taking himself out of the picture (His existence he has already deemed to be as meaningless as the next man): would it fall and crash down as a failure without that single missing piece? Or as that old cliché goes: must the show go on regardless, without him?
His mind made up, he doesn’t linger to find out.
0 comments:
Post a Comment