In Production

Layers melt away until all I can see are the patterns. The mechanisms in my life are hard at work. As the equations work themselves down to their simplest expressions, I see it all play out. And it all seems so familiar. The faces behind the masks, the meanings behind the words. All those I've always known but never met.

I glide between the orbits, never making contact. Pieces come together, pieces fall apart. I see lone elements on vagrant paths to nowhere, I see overwhelming plans coming to fruition.

It's all so beautiful in its function. It's the art of living. Paint stroke decisions, melodic mistakes, the grammar of emotions.

I wonder the landscape of my past, strolling through the painful times and taking a moment to rest in the pleasant ones. I watch the machine operate as a whole. It doesn't make a sound, flawlessly creating a product never meant to be completed.

Things start to lose their perfection, variables are added to the equations. An uncertain future fractures the landscape. The masks slip back on, the layers are laid down once again. I begin to lose sight of the orbits. As the over-saturated colors of subjectivity begin to fade in from the monochromatic perfection I'd witnessed, I find myself back in the abstract.

I step into the future and let the mechanisms get back to work, and I make some new paint strokes. The melody goes on.