Yours

 YOURS

I have long been my own version of the Sandman combing the byways of beaches — and whatever I found I have found it in the form of what I called Find Art, because, although now found, I still needed to find the actual art latent within it by cropping to size both the image and my mind, all the while trying to summon the Happenstantial Powers-that-be to configure induced pareidolia from whatever-it-was to whatever-it-will-become simply by someone like me photographing it for others to experience. Cropping the image smaller, while uncropping my mind bigger.

But that was until something else happened today, a query, a quandary, an old-fashioned look, a frown, a perceived prod, even a doubt bordering on certainty in a different direction of faith to mine, whilst this is not a stance I usually take when things happen unexpectedly as they sometimes do, throwing retrospectively a veiled threat upon the inured process of Find Art adumbrated above when my confidence was earlier so supreme. The difference of two opening paragraphs and the mere blink of time between them. And there is only one more paragraph allowed me.

And the blink did it, an involuntary wink, a knowing look of collusion from an imp of the perverse who had cast its shadow upon the subject of the photo at the precise moment I took its image, even sometimes, if that were possible, casting its shadow upon it *after* the image had already crystallised and migrated between the electronic devices that eventually held it. A frisson of fear — but aren’t all frissons fearful? — as I suddenly realised I must have accidentally imprisoned it during the process. The imp happening to be one of those Happenstantial Powers that are rarely made manifest. But surely it was impossible for any fearless frisson worth its salt to be fearful. I was, of course, the one fearful of it, and I still am. It will find me by dint of already having found me, as if forever. The future embedded in the fixed and certain past. At least, as a consolation, I shall live, in the next blink, as a piece of fine art, mindlessly frozen in time, until another frisson finds me. Yours.