A fish can be fickle, light can be intimate, ideas can be slippery and thoughts can be watered down to an iridescent nothingness. The fickle fish weaves in and out of the water, details flashing amongst her scales. Details. The way the water parts at the swish of a fin. The way the rays dance on the surface of deep dark pondering. The way her gills can expand as she moves down, down, down.
A fish can be fickle, darkness can be distant, ideas can be steadfast and thoughts can be built with blocks of hardened resolve. The fickle fish sinks into the water, searching for something she’ll never find. She laughs with the algae which tickles her face, she weeps to the darkness which she cannot chase. Blind. She has never been blind before, she sleeps with one eye open when the sun disappears and the rays cease to dance.
The fickle fish weaves in and out of the water; up towards life, up towards answers. She moves in pure but murky greys, in careless candour and deliberate ways. Out of the lake and onto the sand, the fickle fish flaps her tail. Deft in currents of thought, she’s left to writhe again and again.