Edges And Parabolas
I woke at 5. Got out of bed. Quiet as I could. My only recourse as sleep escaped me. The early morning light here lacked its usual hue. Honed from mornings of dew and glimpses through trees it was nothing more than a gray cover to an already melancholy world.
Everyone else remained in bed. The entire building asleep. So only I saw what wasn’t. Only I knew what the day didn’t hold. Inspiration escapes in those moments, as the sublime slips into obscurity. But I was fine with that. I would rather sleep.
It never came. So I had to seek some color. Vibrancy. Illusion. Stimulation.
The worlds that unfolded around me sparked. Their palettes live with scintillation. Oranges. Pinks. Greens. Browns. Golds. The spectrum betrayed nothing but the joy its creators had in crafting this.
Opalescence, pearlescence, iridescence. Words unbinden sprang to mind in a fleeting attempt to describe, to put a narrative to what I was seeing. My inner needs to put meaning to what I saw failed or flew or I just stopped trying with time.
I sunk into the tumult. And let it envelope me. Realizing I would not create something so.
Then the others woke. And I left those worlds behind.
Today’s art is courtesy of Iwo Pilc from Kopaniec, Poland.