An Image Makers Contradictions

She is out of control, and somehow, through that freedom, she remains in equilibrium with reality.

Thoughts dance. 

She is the first realization of reflection in a stream. Her constructs are a lit echo of ever flowing distorted estimations.  She is a pulpit, a microphone, and an orator simultaneously. She is a novel with no ending or beginning. She cries without tears. She is a scholar, a teacher, a radical, and a criminal. She spits rhetoric abrasively. She is seeped in justice for the unseen, the unheard, and the abandoned. She is empathy, and her arms are long enough to reach across continents. She embraces the dirt of the earth as she caresses it between her fingers. She is a dissident holding a puppet, with eyes that sting of teargas. She is a martyr who bleeds human blood, the blood of us all. She is her own language, a language composed of a vast, worldly vocabulary of imagery. She is a feeling, sometimes wasted.

She is raunchy and stark. She seduces anyone who would dare to look into her. She fiends for perceptual pleasure. She seeks the suspended orgasm of thought and idea.  And that is high. She runs in all directions at the same time. She has the skin of a chameleon, the teeth of a sabre, and the feet of a dusty footed philosopher. She is dumb and pure like an infants first breath into sunlight. She is a priest, an imam, a rabbi, and a shaman. She has no home, for her only residence is within her own soul. She is light.

She has not been created vicariously, in any particular image and likeness; rather, she is constantly shifting into the image and likeness of independent thought. She stands alone on the stage. Her layers peel away, entrancing her voyeurs. She is conceptual by nature, and that is what makes her such a dangerous creature. She is wonder. She is anything her creator has internalized as valuable. She is never static, for new eyes change her existence.

I see her standing there, at the crossroads of immaturity and enlightenment. I am her creator; her voice is my voice. I am her origin. I lift up the glossy photograph and stare at it blankly. Is it just a piece of paper without my omniscient presence? And I begin to weep over the probability of her awesome meaninglessness.