White chalk, highlighted with charcoal, rusty orange, and dark green spikes. In between, lively grey stretches—almost barren and empty—attempt to represent the sky. The broken colors in my line of vision could be streaks of an incomplete painting, but they are not unfinished; they form stretches of my vision of the dull morning sky. Colors, without defined shapes, suggest abstractions. But abstractions do not behave the way these colors behave. These muted colors are precise in their placement in the sky, as if deposited with extraordinary intent. Yet most of the colors are not bound to the sky. Instead, they are hemmed in by the limbs and leaves and branches of trees. None of this is my imagination. I see reality clearly; until reality appears to be carefully woven of smoke and fog and dreams. And then? And then, indeed.
The night was too long. It was so long it crashed into morning without warning. What sleep there was seemed abrupt and incomplete. I lacked the sustenance I needed to last, yet here I am, fully-formed and full of rage at the idiocy that defines what is perpetually missing. Ignore it. All of it. There is no point in trying to understand chaos.
I could write rationally, but I choose not to do that this morning. Instead, I choose to sample madness; to experience thoughts that clash with sanity.
This is, of course, a slap in the face of expectations. Hard to explain, but easy to dismiss.