It's like swirls of black ink on a white surface or, possibly the opposite, white swirls of ink on a black surface. You'll never know in comparison: black and white images are all the same. Every scribble represents something different, something meaningful or not, something new, something old but never nothing. The image cannot mean nothing. It has to mean something, right? To someone if not to yourself?
My image means nothing.
It's just a wandering, lingering black mark on a blank page. Vivid as it is, it means nothing; to nobody.
The black ink dances across the page elegantly, sketching something I cannot decipher, endlessly lapping around until the image is complete. It has no missing pieces or a line out of place. It is perfection of the mind which has been taken from the very depths of a single soul. It is clear and crisp but nothing in particular and as soon as I can start to define a name for the unique art, the dream ends...
YOU ARE READING
dream
RomanceIf you would like a warning about how this story goes then here it is: This story will not be the sort of simple love story you may want or expect and if you are looking for that sort of novel then you're looking in the wrong place. I'm not sorry. ...
