Shapes were supposed to encapsulate reality—a square, a triangle, a circle—a sanctuary to capture it all, a boundary well-defined. Yet, as time wound its relentless course, those forms crumbled, fractured by the abrasive friction of lived experience. The square was never quite four-angled after all.
Beneath layers of paint and thought, lines were erased, redrawn, and erased anew. And past attempts, like palimpsests of forgotten stories, dissolved to leave shadows where substance once sat firm. It might have once been a garden, penned in meticulous curvature; now a vague greenish smear marks its place on the canvas of life.
To pursue structure beyond the layer is like chasing horizon through mist—shapes loom then match into air, leaving only dampness behind. Careful, meticulous records fade into gray as the same shapes repeat, repeat, repeat into infinity, each time with less intent. But within this cascade, do the shapes mock us, or reveal a deeper truth?