We lived in gaps but hated them, so we learned to classify everything. We pulled the sides of knowing in and sewed closed every in between. We made a sturdy place to stand and this was the birth of the line.
Six thousand peach colored pieces of ceiling gather in bunches on the floor, right before the gap between the wood and wall. A discarded price tag has its nose on the edge of the crevasse and its eyes lost in the darkness. A black piece of thread kinks and loops around itself at the edge of the hemp fringe carpet.
Our house is cold. My feet are stern on the wooden floor. I am all lettuce empty and ice. My eyes are hungry and crawl out the window across the melting snow. Ambiguity is melting to curbs and dirt, parking spots, sidewalk and the fingertips of trees. It is the most satisfying lie that I have ever seen.
I remember one pivotal drawing lesson. I learned: There are lights. There are darks. There are dark lights. There are light darks. But there are no lines. There are only the comparisons.
I am in bed with my eyes closed. I am in bed with my eyes open. There is no difference. My dresser, desk, shelf, books, wall, and chair are all conjoined in one black shape that extends out the back of my pupils.
The line is difference, but in its midst, similarities mesh together and conspire. Their quiet weight grows when characteristics change their minds and slide. This is the death of the line.
There is a gap between the wood and the wall, an unaccounted for space, a gradient. I found it yesterday when I was looking for some unwavering line to keep me grounded.