What are the words? Are there any left?
Why is it words that we reach for to describe, explain, relate? I’m looking for a texture for how I feel now. You can’t understand my existence without knowing this feeling. So it’s a texture I need, not words. Not sounds, rarely sounds.
Fractured egg shells and cactus spines. Chalk on a blackboard. Citrus in a paper cut. Metal on metal squealing of train brakes. Cracked surface of desiccated clay. Steel wool on skin.
Finding a new language by default as I change form. A different way of being translated into a different way of knowing. Knowing without words, without stream of consciousness; beyond conscious thought there is sensation.
Purple Ochre 