Life wants to reduce itself to two dimensions; or less. A picture imploding upon vision’s fickleness, wiping out each previous picture, vivid in its penetration into our mental processes. See it once, see it ten times, it is yours. It is you. Colors ensconce words which are highlighted or diminished around the ideas as images sear eyeballs like newly risen suns.
Events are reduced to the outlines of words which we call objects, state the real to be non-images. And here we are…loving images; they guide thinking, direct seeing to seeing each next image. Imagine! Vision tells us we want to remain in each present moment pushing pictures into some sense of memory which only vision can access.
The control, a theory of images once confined to the interpersonally, to the socially experienced – parents, teachers, searchers after wisdom – now moved to the self: the editor of moving pictures constructed into a thing, an event whose experienced time is constructed and viewed outside its own time. Images recorded to tell a story. A story: images constructed to form another kind of image, a story…a story seems to have more thickness, more duration, than momentary image. Memory…images. Being…images. The real…images?
Slipping into the solipsism in which every I is some string of images of my own creation, so I no longer search for those which inform, stuck in the delight with those that entertain, my mind is some supermarket of images reflecting only upon themselves in the mirror which is me.