In/coherent

oilspill

oilspill

 

Seemingly opposing variables get muddied together, but I want them to stand alone, distinct, clear.

I’m getting vertigo, trying to make sense of incoherencies, those things that are intangibly mutating. I’m repulsed, alarmed by that which is illogical.

It’s unsettling to admit that I only know what feels good, and what doesn’t.


 

I’m walking downtown, foggy-headed, untethered.

 

Busy-minded people blur by. I look down at the ground as I walk. I can’t bear to meet people’s eyes, to see the endless parade of the same vacant gaze.

The ground is littered with their filth. Cigarette butts tossed away and stomped underfoot, like all our dirty secrets. Forgotten scraps of paper, napkins kissed with lipstick. Styrofoam pellets that will outlive us all.

Just ahead, a parked motorbike jumps to life, revving its ugly whine. After it pulls away, I pause in front of its former resting place. Spilled oil is smeared all over the sidewalk, from it and many others like it.

I’m surprised to find it beautiful.

Variables align into one clear moment that pierces through the blur.

This feels good.


Through the fog, brilliant moments still make their way in.

They always do.

 

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