Drift Like Pollen Across A Prism

The forest is not a scene but a unilateral incision into perception itself, an iridescent fissure where color refuses symbolic capture and instead saturates every thought with its own autonomous logic. Here, the trees no longer represent growth; they are vectors of a silent algorithm that multiplies difference without ever resolving into identity. The river’s spectral skin dissolves the criterion of distance, so that each step forward becomes an unmeasured proximity to a real that has already withdrawn. Flowers proliferate as if memory were a botanical function, manufacturing impossible hues to remind consciousness that it is only a derivative of sensation. In this terrain, the subject is demoted to a passive witness of chromatic excess, compelled to inhabit a world that precedes decision, hierarchy, and form, an experience of radical immediacy where thought must surrender its claim to mastery and learn to drift like pollen across a prism.