I found her in flowers. Like so many times before. She smelled of honey and fresh rain, she tasted like bitter poison. Her fruits lured everything that it should not, yet she remained quiet in the moment. Her breath turned into poetic silences as I could no longer speak. The allure of devouring the instant overwhelmed me and I consumed the present.

We shifted from synchronic time to a chaotic mess with no regard for order and structure. We tumbled into an upside-down disorder and we could no longer make sense of the situation. We were inside the belly of time itself. But we were not gifted with sight, no, we did not see time for what it was. We merely felt its discomfort, its power, its ruling might. And yet, strangely, everything made sense, everything somehow formed a cohesive substance on which we could sit and contemplate the chaotic beauty that at once unfolded in front of us but also did not.

Disorder bled into chaos and chaos unfolded into a strange kind of self-organising principle, but it all fell back into disruptions and distress. And we laughed and we cried and we told each other stories of bees and flowers, honey and milk, love and hate. But most of all, we turned flowers into metaphors to represent life itself.

This week we found some flowers and we rekindled our love for them through photographs, poetry, and creative nonsense. We tried to create art and in the process, we might have created poetry with a splash of surrealism. Nightmares and hauntings, but with honey and milk, we sat down and looked at what we could create. And somehow something erupted through the boredom and lacklustre which in turn inspired us even more. And thence the creative products I am sharing here. The girl who I could never write became flowers that were in turn a metaphor for life. Please enjoy these photographs with some interspersed stochastic and random musings.

Metaphoric Flowers

A moment's breath contained in the palm of her hand, decorated by flowers that somehow transported me into another realm where nothing made sense. I tried to comprehend the gravity of the situation but nothing sank into my mind as the moment totally enveloped me.

The flowers leapt from her hand, creating alternative illusions that danced in front of my eyes. The moment was one of introspection in which good and evil started to battle for supremacy in an epic clash of seemingly contradictory wills. Her mind facilitated the space in which the fight was contained and I wondered where everything that was once written in stone all of a sudden went.

Contrasting colours amalgamated into a blob of solid coherence. I questioned the gravity of the situation but we seemed to traverse in another world where these cut-and-dry distinctions did not make sense.

But she still picked the flowers and put them in her back pocket as if she could hide the fact that she grew her mind from the very essence of the flowers. And she became a metaphor for the flowers that contained her spirit, her soul, her nature.

She could not hide the flowers however hard she tried. They grew from her hands and she spoke with honey dripping from her mouth. Her eyes bled with poetry about the colour of each flower, containing the unique codes of her very existence. She wrote books upon books containing recipes for new life, but the words were distorted by pollen which the bees suckled on like a newborn baby.

And the flowers began to grow from her head as her thoughts contained the seed for new plants. Her words became the soil in which she dispersed the seeds that would grow into new life, into magical forms of essences and souls.

She tried to cover her heart with her body but to no avail as the wind began to bite away at her body. Quickly she became nothing yet everything; she dispersed herself across the ocean floor and the amazon and the desert. Nothing came from this yet everything happened in more vivid detail.

In her palm, she held the world. Metaphoric flowers that contained her soul, seeds to new life. She looked at it all through the eyes of a poet and an artist, yet she could not feel satisfied with the creation that contained her soul as she wanted to consume every part of it.

Postscriptum, or A Surreal Work of Writing

I wandered through the strange crevices of my mind where surreal thoughts ferment and grow in their own way. Rarely do I tap into these strange thoughts but somehow the photographs asked for surreal writings. I therefore tried to conjure these thoughts and attempted to place them on paper so that they might grow how they like.

In any case, I hope that you enjoyed the photographs and that they conjured creativity in you. If you read the strange musings, I hope that they were mildly amusing.

For now, happy photographing and stay well.

All of the photographs used in this post are my own, taken with my Nikon D300 and Nikkor 50mm lens. The musings and writings are also my own, albeit inspired by the photographs and the strange places they occupy in my mind.