23 January 2023

The feeling of time that stops. There are places where the three layers of brushmarks align, creating gaps, or cracks, in the pattern—areas of ignorance? Where the devil gets in? Where the light gets in? The texture, the surface weaved, looking at myself, and that something more that poured out of me. I am intrigued by the bottom layer upon which I rest, the sedimentation that has occurred there. That seems to describe an abyss or an infinity. Will I find paradise, the Garden of Eden? Will I find the agricultural revolution? Will I see modernization? This infinite complex system shimmers and coruscates. I feel unanchored, floating in conceptual water—of time, history, identity, God. The complex weave of my being. Nothing you can do would prevent my anger. It is part of the weave. You can only temporarily appease it. Father, son, God, creature. It takes time to read this text. The gaps are filled by fragmentations of myself. Irrational inconsistencies, incoherencies. Transformation of brush strokes into identity. Creating spaces. Depth. It takes time to see past categories.