The Blur πΈ
Some foul mood clawed its way into my marrow this morning; I awoke feeling as though a crawling thing had squatted on my chest all night, whispering petty grievances in a tongue I almost understood.
Dehydrated. Wretched. Sweat-slick from yesterdayβs solar crucifixion, when I dared to move my mortal form through the Outside for some foolish errand of labor and βsunlight.β I triedβoh, I triedβto make images again between the meetings that consume my hours like parasites. Trash. Filth. The photos were garbage. A grotesque parody of art. Each one a mirror held to the void.
Still I post. I feel some flickering resemblance to human in a sacrament to publication.
I scroll back, deep into the digital tombs of my camera roll. Why did I keep these cursed images? Some instinct, perhaps, or a premonition that theyβd one day speak to the madness.
And so I offer you this: blur.
Unfocused, motion-poisoned fragments of light and intention. Itβs βartyβ or something. Or maybe itβs just the way the world looks when reality slips slightly off its axis.
Either way, here it is. But donβt linger.
The blur sees back.
Editing calms me.