This is a poem.
Is it not?
Where should the line be drawn between memoir, or story, perhaps art or even experience in and of itself.
A dot on a page.
Stupid modernist art.
Applying things where they are not.
But what if it is irony?
Mocking itself and all others like it.
What if it is emotion?
Loneliness, against the backdrop.
Anger, contained in a single spot.
Compassion, doing whatever it wants.
Expression, to make itself stand out.
An unfinished piece?
Claimed into significance.
Cheap, easy, lazy.
Elaborate, interesting, subtle.
What goes on through the mind of the artist?
Trying to feign talent?
Trying to get those to think?
Did they even think?
Who were they?
Why did they do this?
Ideas, lost on the page.
Conveyed with mixed signals.
Happening upon the un-chanced minds of others.
Dismissed without a second thought.
Stuck in the head of those willing to look.
What if it was up for interpretation?
Each mind to their own thoughts.
So many responses, life changing.
Some listed above, all not being able to be said.
A universe of possibility, not being seen.
The mind makes of it what it wants.
Art belongs as much to the viewer as it does to the artist.
Meaning can be lost and transformed through new perspectives.
Molded through infinity to make something of itself.
Just as easily glanced and missed.
How could such a thing exist?
It means nothing on its own.
A mind needed to fulfill a meaning.
Projection of meaning onto meaningless objects.
But if that was the intention then it has the meaning of meaningless.
A thoughtful paradox.
Get me out of this loop.
I scream for help.
I think too much.
This dot haunts me now.
Too many ideas trying to scream out at me.
It might just be
"You figure it out." ----Avetzan1