Blank Canvas Syndrome
... And so, the wild horse and its silhouette attempt to outrun each other, like one attempts to outrun their transparency. Yet, is it the animal or its shadow that fades as the day grows long?
I'm sorry if I seem unkind
It's just my own worry
I talk and talk to push that boat out from
Bewilderment Harbour
It doesn't matter what I say
Or whether or not I'm, in fact, saying anything
Sometimes I see you looking
And I know you're looking to find me
You think you see me,
Sometimes I think you do too.
Then I flip the switch and find a new facet to hide under
Turn me over and my shell is hard
In the mornings I feel sickened
with the imminent nausea of doubt.
That thick hide of doom
wraps itself around my rib cage.
Can't breathe
Can't shake it off either
Later in the day though, I'll try to relate again
to what I initially found so charming,
so wonderful, so enchanting.
I remember in another life
how I felt that way too,
except that took years to
ebb away like drain water.
This, on the other hand, has slipped under
a locked door
and I've kept running.
Repulsed from such an affront to my resolve
I turn back to stand purposefully in my corner,
not to cower there
No, not at all...
In truth, there's no sense to make of what is
called, 'Me.'
Just a basket of layered sheets
all of them blank.
Unwrap one of them and you still get white noise.
The artist will believe he can decipher
the invisible ink,
or paint upon the empty canvas.
The fascination of this endeavour
can breed infatuation.
To what end?
Most likely theirs.
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