Going Under
Plunging down, and down, behind the warm living screen of my eyelids, I am not here. I am subject to scrutiny inside the cubicle of the painting. Tiny institutional curtains hang between me and the darkness beyond.
My surface has been penetrated, the red gelatinous stuff inside me is exposed. This thin membrane of living skin, an interface between me and that which is not-me, is all that holds the accumulation of organs and veins together.
With the tensile force of a meniscus curve, my ageing body presses out of the space. Going under, all control is lost. But it doesn’t matter. Control, like this painting, is just an illusion anyway.