I see it all and so I want nothing. Not out of peace, but precision. a photo is light, pixels, shadowplay, not the field, not the flower, not the air in your throat when you breathe it in. Just an image. I like it, sure. but I do not want it. how could I? it does not lie to me. and people...God, people. I don’t dislike them, I just see too much. the rust behind the charm, the patterns that repeat, the childhood still flinching behind the eyes. no one is special when you see how they are made. and I see it, all of it, bones, neuroses, inherited phrases, the loop their mother handed them tied in a pink ribbon called love. I wish I could want things. not own them, desire them. crave them like sugar, ache for them like sleep. but I know too well. know the weight behind every face, the construction behind every thrill. even the sublime feels like geometry now. and so I wait in this clean, dry room of knowing where nothing surprises and nothing seduces, because everything has already been understood.
