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i am ambivalent about art despite the fact that I see it as a central aspect of my obsession. the lack of distinction between the real and the virtual

Tù.úk'z

The garden drifts above the horizon like a hypothesis: each bloom a silent verdict pronounced against the void. Petals overlap in translucent strata, rehearsing the same question—why persist—while the sinuous stems weave uncertain routes through pale air, sketching the geometry of hesitation. Spheres hover, weightless organs of doubt, pulsing with soft gradients that neither confirm nor deny their own substance.I walk inside this suspended ecology and sense the absurd pact between color and nullity. The blossoms, flawless yet perishable, whisper that every act of flowering is already an elegy for itself; they open not to celebrate continuity but to expose the sheer improbability of appearance. Still, their fragrance—imagined yet undeniable—asks me to choose: deliver myself to indifference or invent meaning in the fold between two indifferent skies.I linger where a delicate filament splits into divergent paths, acknowledging the calm terror that freedom entails. Then I place my faith in the trembling curve of the next petal, letting its fragile persistence stand in for proof, however provisional, that the mind can outstare the abyss and remain luminous.

Calm Terror That Freedom Entails

I stand at the threshold where the sea forgets its name and the garden blooms without season—each petal an argument against chronology, each trembling sphere above me a mute confession of indifference. The mountains maintain their silent verdict, rejecting both my questions and the possibility of an answer; yet their dark outlines soothe me, as though a refusal could be gentle.My coat, threaded with labyrinths, mirrors the topography of my own thinking: corridors without termini, promises that bend back into themselves. Still, the fragrance drifting from these impossible flowers reminds me that matter persists in its own joy, unconcerned with the verdicts of consciousness.I would like to believe there is a script hidden in the pink dusk, but the sky offers only its vast punctuation of hovering lights—ellipses rather than sentences. So I accept the nearness of beauty and the impossibility of its message. Between the indifferent cosmos and the riot of blossoms, I discover a thin shelter: the sober exhilaration of knowing there is no interpreter but myself, and that this is enough to go on breathing quietly in the dusk.

Their Dark Outlines Soothe Me

I awoke to find a bouquet where my heart ought to be—pulsing, chromatic petals radiating uncertain intentions. Each blurred bloom whispered a clause of an unratified treaty between dream and terror, its dotted filaments tracing sentences too delicate for daylight. I tried to pluck a single color to anchor myself, yet every hue bled into another, as though the spectrum conspired to erase distinctions. The flowers studied me with their hollow cores, patient archivists of my hesitation, cataloguing every thought I attempted to conceal. I realized then that the arrangement was no gift; it was an interrogation—floral, silent, merciless—asking whether I would bloom into accountability or wilt inside the soft contagion of my own evasion.