Painting.

If you could, you would.
If I would, I could.
And vice versa.
And vice-versa, again.
Or maybe, not.
Not, yes, not.
Chronicling, I kept saying.
And then, I gave up.
And then, you gave up.
And then, they all did.
And it continued.

I stood against the wall.
The cold penetrates the cotton, as usual.
I touched it with my index finger.
And then, with my whole right palm.
Still, it doesn't feel real enough;
Real enough to clutch onto it.

And one after the other, the paradoxes establish themselves.
Distractions, I hope.
But they all are like the magnetic compass.
Can't stop pointing North, no matter where I take it to.
No matter where, when, or how.
Tilted, upside-down, from every point of view;
It shows you.
So I decide to break the needle.
But no, it wasn't such a good idea.
I could have changed the marks, rather.
The diametric metric ones.
Or I could have chosen not to look at it.

But, I did so, didn't I?
I slept it off.
But an overdose has a hangover.