Away at it

There's always something or some things that whittle away at my own mind, a sort of thinking that precludes thought and which captures not moments but traps them in a worthless time and space.  One way or another, what wants and needs to be said, written or done is somehow forgotten- and then, it is past its time, past its prime, past all of it.

An exhibition I happened to walk into the other day, showing some sculptures which showed the immense fragility behind strength- how even solid things can become close to air.

Piece by piece are thus whittled away