Pictorial bounds

A broken logic sputters its utterances, desperate to be heard, to be understood.

The left-handed sit and doodle on the free space at the margins of their work book pages.

The right-handed sigh and stare straight ahead, resigned to their predicaments.

The clock hands trail their orbit, dictating the pace of thoughts and motions in the room.

There are no real connections here – this is not a place for human concerns. This is a place for devouring knowledge, downloading and updating and assimilating.

There is no affection, no expression, only a dry, airless series of transactions, where knowledge is gleaned and busy individuals continue on their way.

Emotions are attenuated, stunted or just neutered by some invisible noose that makes the most human parts of my brain ache.

Nature abhors a vacuum – that is why emptiness is often painful.

Substance, depth, immersion in the viscous honey-trap of human interaction is a necessary evil, so it seems.

Like a character in a painting, I long to move and express something, to find a resolution, but, like a painting, I know I am trapped by my surroundings, by the intentions of others and the inherent failings of my character.

A pair of similes is all I have.