Lines in Water

January 20, 2016 § Leave a comment

A Word Portrait.

Lines. Fracture-lines in darkened scrying mirrors. Strong thick spiderweb lines wrapping around the self, reaching to the surroundings, connecting, enfolding, entrapping. Jagged lines, curving lines, spiraling, a network of lines.

Compartmentalizing, and connecting, and walling off. The lines are cords and links–and they are walls within and without–and they hinder, and they protect, and they do nothing at all. They obscure and they outline, and she is covered in lines, made of lines, radiating them, entrapped by them.

Some are connected to others, and she pulls them. Some are connected to her, and she is pulled by them. Some once connected elsewhere and are now snapped, broken, frayed. Some are knotted. Some are slowly repairing, slowly growing.

She is all lines and often monochrome but there are flashes of color, some strange textures, red ocher and azure, golden, opalescent. In places she is held riged and in places she is as shifting-shimmering as water.

There is much of water here. Rainfall, storm-crash, new-moistened earth. And sometimes stagnant pools, murky, choked with moss and pondweed. She is a bark-skinned liquid chimera with half-wings nad fur and mismatched gaze, feet in four worlds. She is at once soft and spiked, staticky, roiling chaos with the wind that stirs the water or whips it into frenzy.

Water in lines, a net in the murky depths, tight-constrained and breaking free a tie at a time.


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