A glimpse of a moment in time is relevant to my perception of that instant. For describing a figure of time and its object embodied in it is far from static. Its description is a blur, relative to that which I have been guided to assume. This bird before me is the object, and the stunning depth which describes it is the figure.

The freedom to move through time passes deliberately from each thrust of its flaccid wings. Its colours are as important as the blend that they create while they devour each other vigorously. The cannibalistic act of each element continues as they move. Repeating in my belief of its thrusts. Mimicking the instant before, and leaving its tints behind. Each time pushing it forward, innately giving the bird flight.

The blur of a bird flies suspended in my stare and enclosed in a blue frame. Pushing me aside, as it glides in a space I dare not occupy. Entangled in a body which changes as the bird chooses. Suppressed by the contours in which it glides, relevant only to the blue haze it disturbs. But yet, dedicated to this suffocated space, the blur decays. As if dripping its syrup of life into a countless, clicking clock of time and memory. Making its presence known the only way it knows how. Swiftly and gleefully creating a passage of depth and space as it grows and shrinks in the blue maze. And so, in this passing through time and space, the bird lives.

I am caught up and overwhelmed in the reality of it all, as unreal as it may seem. Defining a blur, as something that it should not be. Valuing this bird as something that it aught to be. For as a bird, it’s something that exists, but as it exists, a blur is all it is. The sound of its image echoes in my mind, resonating its blended hues. The echo of similar blurs in similar hazes, and their images are solidified in my mind with dry, monotonous stories whispered loudly to me by estranged authors. Blinding me with more than the limited pallet in my mind. Yet, their voices describe nothing that I see. But only raise questions of the authenticity of my mind. Making me doubt the truth which the bird tells me. For the truth of the bird’s existence in the blue frame lasts but an instant under my whispering stare, but its doubtful moment screams into my mind for countless drips and ticks. And in this loss for order its beautiful complexity reflects in me, as I reflect onto it my own chaotic mind. Letting this bird find a home, and glide anew.