Bounded But Infinite

A writer who hasn’t been writing. A painter who doesn’t paint. An artist who hasn’t picked up a pencil, brush, pastel, charcoal in can’t-tell-ya-how-long. The conceptualist who wilts at rigor.

Head full of Time & Pain, Change & Ache, Color and Glyphs and Cardinality n-dimensional absurdity colliding and orbiting and mixing: Synesthetic Anesthetic Sympathetic-Parasthetic, all trussed up and nowhere to go, all run amok and nowhere to hide.

“Just Pick One and step towards it,” they say, simplistic reductive nonsense in a head full of plurals born of too much experiences with duplicity and multiplicity and simultaneity.

The voice that fails to speak can one day only croak its first new words and then only under great strain and effort. And that presumes an interested audience. Thought alone isn’t any easier, just a more familiar kind of steep challenge.

And a full head, unlike a full bucket, doesn’t overflow: it just gets bigger while staying just as full. There’s just more TimePainChangeAcheColorGlyphsCardinalityDimesionality. More makes sense but less is accessible to that presumed, presumed-interested audience.

And ain’t that the pits.