Myopos

At dawn, I can see nothing but weightless fog. I can perceive contours and indefinite shapes which I am not able to define and I get lost, at the mercy of minuscule droplets which wrap me up with no heat. My slow gait guides me into a space that I do not fully understand but I feel mine. I stretch my hand and I recognize my canvas, my brushes. My vision is still blurred but the memory is alive and it evokes the images I was looking for. I plunge my brush and with it, I lash the canvas to eternalize the moment and the creation of the memory brings me back to a primitive instant where bodies did not possess either conscience or identity but they were only flesh and movement.