eye of the beholder
"eye of the beholder" Inside the iris, a soft glitch— not failure, a doorbell. Dust rings the bell of the pupil: enter, bring whatever light you carry. Every eye is a darkroom, every blink a shutter fall. You call my freckle a dead pixel; I map it as a star that never learned to quiet itself. Same speck, two skies. Your lens likes the hard-edged truth, mine drags its finger through the wet paint. Neither of us is wrong. That’s the mercy. We look at the chipped mug. You see fracture, a hairline future of split mornings. I see a riverbed, mineral and patient, a place to wash the tongue of the day. Some images refuse to choose between wound and water. That’s where I drink. When the frame tilts, colours misbehave: violet stepping out of its lane, green ghosting the edge of a leaf like rumour. Chromatic aberration, the textbook says. I call it the soul trying out new shoes, refusing to walk heel-to-toe for anyone. In your gaze, the city is all...
