Fragmentations of Geometric Inaccuracy

One. Shape as self-sufficient and silent, sithering and song. For one day alone, we adventured to seek for symmetry in our daily life. We stared at each other, and through each other’s eyes, borrowing perception and bringing it back home to ourselves. Split in half, two pieces that make a mirrored whole, and for a month we vowed to not look in the mirror, not even once. And after a month, we could hear objects speak to us, in a slight tinnitus whisper that whirled and winded throughout our byzantine ear canals. The objects had taken on human disturbances, schizophrenic mechanical pencils, and lighters that went through periods of seasonal affective disorder. Our cigarettes lamented the loss of their tobacco trees, depressed and decongested from months of claustrophobic cigarette packs. And the lights. The lights they flickered their eyelids to hide their tears; PTSD, I’m sure, and a long-standing complex from being unable to be bright as the sun.
Two. A child wants to be reincarnated into an electromagnetic field. We tell him that we are not sure, but that it may be possible, if he was a good boy. There were pulsing waves that lapped at the shores of our sleep, promising song in the key of morning and mended cardigan sweaters. A stranger whistles a never before heard tune, it translates into nightfall and we know
that the end is near.
Three. Without even making a sound, you are my background noise. Cupped in petaled hands, the light pink of faded Indian Dupioni silk curtains. And growing still, fighting against the deceitful photomontages with their eternally closed eyes of unblinking darkness. The ensemble of silence, speaking inside of our thoughts and waiting for our own echoes to tell us something more.