From an unrelenting unsurmised version of events tap tapping away at the dustiness, relentlessly sweeping up cobwebs from the corners of the mind. Gathering the dust in the centre and transforming it into golden treasure.

To wrapping it up in plastic wrap and covering it up with spare cloth, bundled up, treasured in, stuffed in old boxes of worthless junk and forgotten. Till the day that was never. To beeps into a helmet designed to delegate into small boxes.

Uh.

Meh.

Beep.

Art as intrusion. The more I listen, see, stare, react and either meld into it or cringe away, the more obvious and evident it gets how violent art is. It stabs you or pushes you away, changing bits inside you for better or worse. What's seen can't be unseen and what's heard cannot be unheard. It can hated, loved but mostly everything in unignorable.

It is shocking, the degree of how much freedom one really has in living the life one wants to. Life cannot exist without designs. Of everything. And on everyone. And by everyone. Squiggles to buildings. Giant overbearing overpowering intrusions to the things one hears. Car horns, the clicks of one's heels, the way someone walks. A sarcastic laugh in the face of a passer by lingering in your ears, being reminded of it days later when something happens and you can't quite remember where that came from.

I hesitate and deliberate every time I have to post a title to one of these posts. And how it restricts what I write. Granted, I always so digress but it feels worse when it's from something that exists. In big letters. Above what I am writing. Leaving it blank saving some sanity.

I've been waiting for the sun since the morning. It gets freezing cold under my blanket. Although the idea of waiting for warmth even if it does go away eventually is better than being in a hot haze all day and all night. Which is soon to be true. The AC buzz does lend a kind of soporific contentedness which I miss. The sun can be helpful but it's a moody friend. The cloud games don't help either.

I was talking about art, though. I remember things best which were under a sunny spotlight. An unusual kind of a sun. The winter lovability of it all. Magic happens from 2 to 4 now. It used to be a lot earlier earlier, now time's just grown. Late summer afternoons which demand thousands of written pages. The texture of skin, crisscrossing lines of things that can't be seen until nothing has to be seen. Like little waves undulating on the surface.

How hard it is to come by someone whose eyes you cannot read. Who doesn't care about the people wanting to do things such as reading their eyes. Eyes are mostly just eager and awake and waiting. Happy and ready. Or busy. Never not wanting to be read. They scream out for attention to be understood. And foreheads are smooth, as they shall be. There is hardly disappointment in congregations. Coming together with hope in their eyes and faith on their lips, that they do this for a reason. And it is worthy.

None of them can say that it's just the way they see things because all of them see the same things the same way in the same direction. How else are congregations possible. How else is art possible, I think. How individualistic is it if it's so loved. Is it personal or groupthink on paper and canvas and sound waves which travel to the inner recesses of the mind already stamped and signed with a million different hands. Which were held in prayer towards gods of being. Which mean a million different things to million different people in a million different ways. Of only one world.

How do they exist. Without wanting to be rid of things that already exist. The things they did not make. Which are forced upon their being. The air is everyone's. Just as art is. Who created it. But it has to be breathed. To live. The cogwheels turn invisibly and silently inside brains oblivious to truths. Personal vendettas will remain unrealised forevermore.