He drew on himself: strange symbols, lines leading nowhere, circles with no particular orientation. His pens were continually running dry of ink, and if he took a bath, the water stained a blackish tint, as if he were washing away sins. The patterns he drew were a mystery of asymmetry, an ode to chaos; these markings were a war paint to a battle long over, his side the defeated. No one ever asked him why he did this — there was a certain unknowable poetry to it, and people... people don't ask questions when they think they already know the answer: he was a sign that the universe was as senseless as they believed. But if they had asked him, "Why?", he would have answered, "This is what the whole world means — this is the way I see it. Each day the pattern changes, and when the old one washes away, I draw on myself what is new... like a reflection of it all that knows what it reflects, a world rewritten in abbreviations."
me?!
8:51am friday, 13th june
I liked this one very much,very much indeed!How you come to think of all you write about is beyond my comprehension..I must say that reading your work gives me linguistic knowledge, in addition to the knowledge on a more philosophical or spiritual level!The other day when I was thinking about us all dying and all- I suddenly came to realize that when you are gone your work will live on.Maybe on the net,maybe in dead tree form- and most certainly in our hearts.
me?!