The tempest rages on. The explanatory defences form the core of the conquest. The eye of the storm, so to speak. And in that core dwells the stillness. As human beings, we look for the absolute everywhere, in everything. I, too, am an absolutist. What I cannot define, I deny. For what I cannot define or deny, I create a new absolute to explain it away. The mind eternally searches for meaning... for in meaning lies a synonym and in synonyms lies an idiosyncratic stillness. And that is the subject of my affection.
Dreams are vast by their nature, by nurture, by their ephemerality and by the force of their intensity. To hound those dreams then becomes a Herculean task. I look at the greens, earth browns, silvers, marble whites around me and I see in them the dreams of my people. I look at faces, eyes, hands, feet, curls, ear-rings and the crowds and the smells and the salt in the air and the dreams nauseate me. Absolutism corks the nausea, flavoured with a pinch of fatalism. What is to be, will be. Consolatory words for the dreams-not-come-true, for the pinks of embarassment, for the greys of frustration. What is to be, will be.