Clandestine Laboratory Of Perception

The landscape arranges itself like a clandestine laboratory of perception: concentric spores, chromatic and trembling, hover above a muted estuary that never quite aligns with the laws of optics. Each circular bloom is both specimen and witness, an artificial sun awaiting vivisection, while the aqueous horizon, pink–blue and porous, slips in and out of credible depth like an anxious dream too aware of its own fabrication.

I stare until the grid dissolves; the flowers at my feet and the constellations overhead converge into a single plane, flattening the distance between foreground and memory. What pretends to be nature here is, in fact, the shadow of a desire to narrate order, an epistemological mirage assigning names to shapeless affect. Yet the moment I classify one sphere as “blossom” or “star,” the image retaliates, multiplying paradoxes, whispering that definition is merely the final exhale of a frightened mind.

Thus I linger in a perpetual dawn where cognition blooms and withers simultaneously: a silent negotiation between the promise of form and the vertigo of endless interpretation.