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Imagine you are the only artist in a world full of constructors.
There is commonality.
They, like you, create things.
But for them, creation is putting two and two together to make four.
For you, the world can’t be quantified in numbers. It is detail, it is sense, it is always a picture, big or small. Creation is putting two and two together and getting seaglass, the colour red, the sound of one specific sort of laugh, one among many.
Everything you create comes from within, and carries with it a cost. Each creation is linked to you by a thread, and a bad valuation on any one of those things is a bad valuation on you.
Imagine living in a world filled with constructors, and being told that your heart doesn’t add up to four. Imagine being told that it is lacking, or that you’re wrong about what it feels. Imagine being told it is unimportant, because it doesn’t have its own number.
Imagine having to become a constructor.
And turning all your images to numbers.
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January 2019. Prose.