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Look into oblivion with an undisturbed gaze. The visible invisible. The emotion ebbing away into the infinity of feeling. See my forgotten thoughts returning. They look around in amazement. They intertwine with the past. Insoluble in their complexity.
I search for solutions. The confusion therein disrupts my search. Even if I were to retrieve the past, I could no longer live in it. The ripple of my present life can no longer synchronize with my past.
Oblivion is endless. Movements slowdown in the perception of my rigid gaze. My canvas moves away from me. My brushes disappear. The music in my ears plays a confused melody. My momentary joy slowly drifts away from me.
Who am I? In my wildest dreams, I cannot escape oblivion. In this stratification I cannot find myself. I realize that now I must not be lost in the oblivion of my thoughts.
In the current din of violence and exploitation of political ideologies, my oblivion is lost. I try hopelessly to cling to my own world, in which oblivion is a part of. I don’t want the world to disturb my oblivion.
The sun tries to penetrate between the clouds. My gaze is illuminated by it. The sharp edges have crumbled somewhat. Can I extract my oblivion from the future? Am I bold enough for that? Or am I overplaying my hand now?
How will I be remembered then. Personally, I think I am forgotten the moment life leaves my body. The memories will go into the grave with my remains. The ages will pass over me. The earth will take care of me like an archaeological remnant from unknown times.
Looking into oblivion is like looking into an indeterminate future, which you hope will develop in your direction. The gloom of my gaze returns to the disintegrating cloud cover.
There is disorder in this world, however that disorder is actually an order, pointing to an unknown future. Only we are blinded by it. Instead of using the disorder as a guide, we try to restore that disorder and thereby give our future a different, possibly, undesirable direction.
My gaze returns from my oblivion. My canvas comes back into view. My brushes become tangible again. The music is again a coherent sequence of tones. I sigh.
The sun now illuminates my studio. The shapes on the canvas make me return to reality where there will be no room for oblivion.
I don’t have to go hunting, I can just walk into a supermarket and do my daily shopping there.
How beautiful reality is sometimes and that Homo Sapiens still created something wonderful. I am thankful that I was once born on planet Earth and not planet Mars.
Leaning back in my favorite armchair, I enjoy my delicious snack with a delectable cup of coffee.
The sun has disappeared again.
