Undercurrent

Fluctuating patterns roam my body — geometric shapes, visceral textures steeped in colours. Emotions, they say, with names and a life of their own.

I catch one in the moment, observe it, dissect it, searching for the right term. Words learned from books prove insufficient classifications of these involuntary mechanisms. I’d always thought them mere metaphorical flourishes of human speech; sparks of an unfree will.

Sacred Songs – Valentyn Vasylyovych Sylvestrov

But as soon as the music starts, I drown in a kaleidoscopic flood of my emotional debris. The undercurrent breaches, becoming the surface itself. No words needed. Just letting go.