The Blur 📸
Some foul mood clawed its way into my marrow this morning; I awoke feeling as though a crawling thing had squatted on my chest all night, whispering petty grievances in a tongue I almost understood.
Dehydrated. Wretched. Sweat-slick from yesterday’s solar crucifixion, when I dared to move my mortal form through the Outside for some foolish errand of labor and “sunlight.” I tried—oh, I tried—to make images again between the meetings that consume my hours like parasites. Trash. Filth. The photos were garbage. A grotesque parody of art. Each one a mirror held to the void.
Still I post. I feel some flickering resemblance to human in a sacrament to publication.
I scroll back, deep into the digital tombs of my camera roll. Why did I keep these cursed images? Some instinct, perhaps, or a premonition that they’d one day speak to the madness.
And so I offer you this: blur.
Unfocused, motion-poisoned fragments of light and intention. It’s “arty” or something. Or maybe it’s just the way the world looks when reality slips slightly off its axis.
Either way, here it is. But don’t linger.
The blur sees back.
Editing calms me.