For a time he documented his facial expressions.
He arranged the photographs on a storyboard.
With his finger he traced pathways through fields of possibilities.
Guiding himself with a hand mirror, he mimed the resulting sequences
and waited for something to fill the blank spaces behind.
But somehow there was no learning.
He thought: Perhaps someone else is narrating my life.
Philosophical poetry. Lovely.
Love the structure of this, the playing with space. Peace…
I like how the narcissism drifts into paranoia.
Also, it’s tight without making a show of the economy of expression. That’s not so easy to achieve (and not that you need me to tell you that). Bravo!
Cool piece of writing. The fragmentation felt like angles of a camera shot. Really well done
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nice. thanks much folks.
i’m interested in treating sentences like camera angles and using that to manipulate a sense of space. i’m pleased that that it seems to have worked here. these little pieces: it’s hard to get the balance right between tiny form and layers. sometimes it works.
thanks for the comments…