No moon, but urgent stars
As big as the wall. And the wall was big. Museum wall. Giant wall. A
wall you would only find in an over sized space meant to hold over sized
objects.
On the wall, the painting. As big as the wall. Oil maybe. Thick. Dark. Luminescent.
At the bottom of the painting, a man. Silhouette in white like gauze or
the silk of a moth. He lays on a line. Ground, presumably. Or
consciousness. History. The stuff of life. Physicality.
We see him from the side. His profile. Nose. He is on the line. Reality. Resting. Looking up at the sky. Close.
Sky dark. Sky bright with illuminated stars. Cosmic bursts. Suns. Solar flares. Infinity.
The man, a body, a soul. He is surrounded by stars. The darkness is lit.
A million billion tiny brilliant lights. Star dust. Imagination.
Ephemeral yet grounded. He is looking up at the stars. As big as a wall.
There is no edge. Not the end of the frame. Not the completion of the painting.
He is clothed by stars. Encapsulated. Floating. Illuminated. Luminescent.
If you could capture the sky and yet allow it to be expansive, unencumbered, unconstrained. This is that.
He is rising into the stars. A pillow. A feather. A body.
The dark is light. Full of celestial bodies. Bodies. Bodies.
As big as a wall.
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