Self Portrait....!

I could be an ink on paper where the ink splashed through to where we meet

In the event that I were a numerical equation I would be a blackboard brimming with images and bolts. No. I would be numerous such blackboards.

Or on the other hand perhaps only a colored pencil composing 1+1=

With no response. Pondering.

Maybe as a melody I would be a consolidating of something that reverberates in deafening bass tones with a gentility on top, and a pounding beat… there would be a chorale of underground rock. Too an unmistakable ping of water on a clay bowl. Moving.

Or on the other hand as a dinner I could be, on certain days a hand tailored gala of cautiously covering tastes, surfaces, and temperatures. Pungent, and sweet, hot and severe. Burn your tongue in one nibble, cool beverage of effervescent in the following. Different days I am warmed extras, absorbed the previous flavors. Reminding.

As a winding around I would have strings of greenery, and my darling's hair, the purple plastic decoration from my bicycle when I was nine, the silk of yearning, and bothersome fleece — (on the grounds that life is numerous things however not happy). I would be a tricky shroud that considers air, and mystically keeps out the virus. Enveloping you by adoration and thoughts and giving you initiative to investigate. Tending.

I could a paint, with thick pieces of variety and differentiations, wide shapes that say BANG! Or on the other hand the littlest daintiest filigree of little brush strokes, a piece of sod curving in a breath of wind. An ink on paper where the ink doused through to where we meet. Coming to.

I could be a sonnet, similar to water that mirrors the me that you see, and changes each time you read it. Made in language so open that I stay ready to move and change inside the words. All things considered I probably won't seem OK. Learning.

I could be a woodland, a knoll, or a tide pool. A desert or a tundra. I could be a puddle of filth that is simply framing into damp chance. I could be a mushroom holding the correspondence between trees. Living.

In every one of these I am portrayed in a bunch of messages that make sense of and affirm each other. Messages that sing to one another. A soundness is occurring.

Furthermore, when we meet you will see one more arrangement of pictures, a lady in shoes and decorated in the thing-ish world we live in. I will dress for the event of our gathering in something purchased in a store that covers me in a culture of signs so you will know where to place me in your library of codes. What's more, you will do likewise. Many long stretches of messages are flying between us. Decent? Adorable? Commendable? Status?

Be that as it may, which codes have we decided to message each other inside? Which signs are darkening the others?

Could you at any point actually feel the surface of my math? Might you at any point inhale the ink of my fleece? Could you at any point be a piece of turf with me? Verifiably, in the drift of us, in the style of us, in how we are… makes the wind of our correspondence.

Changing the code changes more than the message… these are representations of plausibility.