I used to love my narrow little world, I used to love how uniform and smooth everything was when it was covered in the thick and greasy lacquer of simplicity. I lived in an oil painted realm, where pragmatism ruled the day, and function dictated form. In my world substance was defined only by line and color, time and dimension were tricks and manipulations of the same, for there was only a here and there, with no points in between, and no surface, however curved it should be presented, served itself up to be betrayed by some greater depth. Motion was just an interpretation of skillfully made illusions and force was merely the impression left by intentions direction. All things had an obvious purpose, the discernment of which was just a matter of looking. Nothing could be deconstructed or lifted from its context once the paint was dried and the brush put away. Nothing collided or became entangled, and all things were openly available to be accounted for, crystal clear and unobscured, potential was singular and unwaveringly realized. Uncertainty was only a quality of perception and the product of discernments limits, kept around for novelty's sake alone and not ever something that could possibly manifest itself on the canvass itself. It was a world where only that which was seen truely existed, and what existed was absolute in that it was always there, unchanged and readily available to answer the beckoning of the naked eye. Above all, it was entirely possible to see all things, as they were, at rest and in any given instant. Where the observer existed in a perfect vacuum, and ones own sterile attention fell gently on the surface of what was observed, leaving no annoying ripples of a disturbing impact. For all the starry nights, guilded faces, fiery pastures and flocking geese of my world were tidily framed away and hung up on the wall, each a universe of its own, meant only to inspire those who gazed upon them to imagine what it was like inside. Ahh, but alas, my world has grown, my once confident stares are now obfuscated by frustrations tears and the infant beauty of naivety is beginning to slip loose from my feeble mind. The tender garment that once sheltered my frail figure from the cold, sheering violence of complexity is shed and lies in an unkempt heap upon the floor, nothing more than a soiled rag to be kicked aside, a stubborn and neccessary article of debris. Feeling now as if corrupted by the poorly understood spectre of higher notions and the abstract language with which they are expressed. Hesitant and far from confident, stepping back now, with steps that cannot be undone, from the honest and simple world created by the taken for granted brush strokes of honest and simple folk. I find myself immersed within the gaudy sights and relentless sounds of the casino that my cherished paintings hang in the lobby of. A multileveled circus maximus where each floor has its own game, and to understand roulette does little to help you win at black jack. Who was it that dared to look upon this assualting spectacle of so many rambunctious games of chance and say that god does not play dice? Who was so bold as to walk into such a rowdy storm of loosely managed chaos and say such a thing as that. He was either mad, or an innocent victim of the almighty hustle, as I just dont see how else one could come to such conclusions. Look, there is god, over there at the craps table, dont you see him? He's the well dressed swindler who pays the casino managers bills, the white haired old man with wild eyes, all the chips and a confident grin brought on by too much gin and tonic. Bah! He plays dice alright, and does so with fervid zeal and reckless abandon. I think his secret is that his dice are loaded. Given that he practically owns the joint I imagine they will let him play and win until he has his fill. As it is now I dont really know how the old man does it, staying up all through the night. He was here long before I arrived, and he'll be here long after I leave. For my eyes are already swollen and my head is thumping, exhausted by all the glimmering noises and smokey sights. I turn away and head for the elevator, seeking shelter from the obnoxious assualt of it all. They gave me a penthouse suite for the night as consolation for loosing all of my life savings. Thinking now only of retiring to bed, the polished brass elevator doors slowly collapse togther, I hear the old man let out another zestful cheer. Go figure, he won again. I just shake my head and cant help but to let out a tender chuckle as I casually wonder what kinds of paintings adorn the walls of my awaiting room.