A: My spine is doubled by the chords of a poorly-tuned guitar. My vertebrae and discs are a deformed piano. My skull is the deep echo of a viola. They all sing in perfect lack of harmony while the wind sways my hair away from my skin. My skin vibrates and intensifies the sound in inaudible frequencies. The notes swirl in my ear so chaotically that I lose balance to their strength and beauty, I fall on my knees and feel like embracing myself just to stop it all.
My fingers try to touch the horizon and follow the contour of everything surrounding me: the dim light that gently peeks from behind the leaves, their vessels pumping green blood in and out towards my nostrils; the unreproducible shade of coral at sunset that the roses have; the invisible mist caused by the sunlight while it’s gently soothing the Earth goodbye; the Sun refusing my handshake through a cold breeze of autumn wind. The sky crushes my synapses through the density of its colours: a sweet maddening toxicity of beauty, always ephemeral, always unreachable; always imaginary, because, after all, they’re all projections of our brain.
I am an artist and I am myself today, as every day. I am mad.
S: My mind is a never-ending bundle of wires, short-circuiting to create new connections and to end wrong theories. I can hear their hissing and the speed with which the electrical impulses are being sent; the “ding!” of new ideas and the boring tune of “Eureka” whenever something finishes in “Quo era demonstrandum”.
My surroundings are spectra of lights projected through different angles at different intensities, the reflections are always on a basis of mathematical perfection; the sound of wings is the sound of perfect physical precision and revolution against gravity. My lungs are filled with complex, but boring and vital chemical reactions, existent on earth since life itself. Or so the books say – but you know, where science can’t reach, you shouldn’t question. And history is indeed one of those voids, mind you. Same as our memory for that matter, our long term memory is always questionable regarding the actual truth of events – like a mathematical issue brought by someone, it has to be solved through the proven algorithm that someone else invented and was afterwards verified by a long line of mathematicians.
As my skin starts getting colder, I approximate the time: about 8 pm, hm, almost sunset! And with raising my eyes to the actual sky – there you go, another small Eureka for you! I must be going mad!
Look at that mesmerized young girl over there, swaying her hands in the air. She must be approximating air pressures or changes in temperature or something. The precision of this world is indeed impressive. Always, but never the same –
A: Look at that weird man over there, enchanted by his surroundings. No wonder, the Brownian movement of stimuli that constantly play with our senses, the smell of green grass, the cold touch of the future-to-be autumn wind, the endless and always revolutionary palette of colours, the music of the grasshoppers that are starting their serenades for the lonely moon –
A and S: All a Universe of calculated spontaneity, all a Universe of maddening unknown.