Much like the electrons of an atom, thoughts spin around my head wildly, randomly and without a place to call their own.
‘Words are shit, because they put you somewhere else.
I’m trying to catch the things that are in between.’
– Steve McQueen
Or, much like electrons, I write down what I’m thinking, collapse a wave function, to create a point of view from the bubble of nothing.
But the thought is not the fullness of what I’m thinking or the thought itself in full. What is on paper is a slice of time – a spot on place and location that reflects, maybe, the direction things in my head were taking.
Or maybe, the point of view comes from a twitch -- just a powerful oomph of dog eat dog movement in my head that claws its way out when the pen hit the paper.
When I write a simple declarative statement, it becomes a condensation of a cloud. Probabilities and understandings getting squeezed like toothpaste to form, essentially, a thick point in time. The time gives the point a view, a place to exist, and a wall to crash the waves of other possibilities against.
My indecision, the whirling in my head and the all things of potential becomes a slash – a line in the sand, a sign post of the pale.
But most of the time I don't know either position or whirring buzz, only that a hot plate moves within me, pushing up little dots of stability from something unseen that’s the most of me.