16th February 2020

Images when viewed unadulterated, presenting the design, focus, color and perspective of the author, are an exactly expressed illustration of the moment of their creation. Uniquely individual, whether photograph, cartoon, picture, sketch, etching or any other form of graphic representation, they give the viewer direct insight into the original observer’s mind.

Pictures beg interpretation and explanation, garner empathy and understanding, but these are not attributes desirous in pursuit of the portrayals individualistic truth or meaning. Perception should necessarily be non-emotional, unfiltered, uncomplicated, without personal diagnosis or applied projection. Rather seek immersion, digestion, to be wholly infiltrated, to consciously and sub consciously merge. Art, all images are unquestionably art in some form or other, is to be experienced virginally, not compared, overly considered or dissected. We are faced by impersonal feeling in its purest form, neither possessing or requiring verbal or gesticulatory explanation, proviso or apology. Existence is endless creation, a constantly flickering lens cover, the brush or pencil in abiding motion. Human reality is uniquely dualist, as both recording camera and observing audience.

I am on occasion overtaken by the very real sensation of the flesh on my hands, particularly around the webbing adjoining the fingers being afire, burning with such pervasive reality I feel obliged to ring them together in some vain attempt to quench the flames. I am quite aware this is purely psychosomatic, an invention, a trick my mind is for some undisclosed reason imposing upon my nervous system. My will seems quite unable or unwilling to immediately combat this phantasm, rather I permit, or more correctly am obliged to indulge in the fantasy, suffer the torture, experience the unreal, be engulfed by the dark shadow that is imagination.

When normalcy returns, when hands shed their flowing lava coating to resume existence as simple flesh and blood, I am inclined to question the true reality of the experience. Was this lucid dream, reverie, pure hallucination, perhaps a vision of horrors to yet unfold, a premonition of the pit itself? 

Minutes, maybe hours later scarifications of the experience will remain, the unforgettable, yet strangely intangible recollection of what might have transpired, to include an unshakable resolution that the specter is bound to return to haunt again, and again, quite possibly ad infinitum.

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