He is a street sign, tagged with graffiti, that tells me to stop and I don’t.
He is script language, with thin, spiked angles that seem sharp to the touch like nettles. It’s just the look of it. Maybe he tries to look that way.
A little delicate through all those spines.
There’s just too much of it all. Every story twists and turns, every comment precedes another four, which turn into a journey. He’s been everywhere and back or maybe he just likes saying so, but it’s hard to tell where the bottom lies. Whether these stories are distracting and weaving a case around the center which I’ll never access. Is this on purpose?
And he makes the wrong decisions.
Yes, his most human aspect so far. I can tell that he’s trying, but it’s working and I don’t know whether to fault him for it.
For most things, I didn’t pay attention. Maybe I’d find fault in them as well. If I bothered to look.
And he is warped toy pianos, and he is shiny metal rubbed matte, and he is rust on old knife handles…
And he is more I could discover, which I know he wants me to.
Sometimes our outsides are interesting to distract from bland insides. Sometimes our image is far more fascinating than we could ever be. It’s all about looks.
And it works.
But then there’s the people who can’t help it, where they blossom from the inside and leave splashes of color and art on every part of themselves, on everything they do, a mottled path of oil or petals or gravel that is distinct and unchangeable. Exhaust or wood shavings, or glitter. These people leave their mark. It’s like they’re leaking themselves uncontrollably onto a canvas world.
I’ve followed his spots and drips and I won’t leave until I know what I’m seeing. An abstract inkblot person who is both real and dream, danger and desperate, leather and still water. Formless and nameless and intricate, or folly. A burden of no world to call his.
He knows and won’t say.
His eyes are like streetlights with all colors black.
Which signal means ready?
I think, right now.