I trace the perimeter of the blossom. The petals are wrapped lovingly together as if conducted to a waltz. The partners have frozen in time, forever entangled in their embrace. The sunlight on the morning dew sparkles as chandeliers of their universal ball.
I follow the trails left by the droplet of ink through the crystal goblet of water. How it floats and sways, leaving behind a pattern I liken to a music note that hasn’t been heard. It cuts through the dense path with a calm assurance of its beauty and lazy in its power.
I grasped for the desert sands flowing down the dune with my bare hand. There is a smooth ripple to their fall, like the mouth of a waterfall breaking and surrendering to gravity. There is a rush to break the unwrinkled carpets of sands – a rebel without a cause, it finds respite at the curved bottom.
I focus on the edge of the damp canvas touched by the tip of the paintbrush. From a singular point, the colour spreads like a blossoming flower springing free from the locks of the bud. Even inanimate, it follows the random uniformity otherwise impossible to replicate.
I blow at faerie dust and watch the particles pirouette in the lonely ray of the afternoon light before landing on the polished wood. The gold and amethyst cloud forms patterns that reflect the midnight sky with starlight twinkling solemnly of promises being made across the world.
￼Even when you break patterns, it leads to an inconsistency so perfect that it becomes a part of the perfection.