by Jamie Erickson[easy-media med=”7949″ mark=”gallery-YobYMg”]
A violet veil hovers over earth, afraid of commitment. There are people walking in between rooms, daylight following behind them, captured. Uncaged light splatters across the sky, just a couple small dots at first, before animals, gods, wishes, candy bars, and kitchen utensils pointing North begin to assemble. They look down at us and our captured day, in tragic awe at the beauty gifted to them every evening. They would say that group looks like a rabbit or when you see one blink out it means your dreams will come true. They don’t know the inconvenience of a blackout like we do the pain of the death of a friend. Though we treat them both similarly—casual, a short walk with a distinguished beginning and end. Fireworks a drama not for the faint of heart: quick life, fast death, bright streaks imprinted in the sky, on the skin. The horizon has the clearest view, constantly coveted, always just out of reach. It has one mantra, only understands one thing: the view from above is no different than the view from below.