Lines

Diagonal lines, parallel lines and perpendicular lines but no curves and no optical illusions.  This could only be art.  With a glass in hand I wander around the rest of the exhibition.  I pause for a while in front of each exhibit and sip, determined to give each piece its dues in spite of my boredom.  The gallery itself is the most interesting thing and with my friend we speculate how it would make an awesome apartment.  After one short lap perusing each piece and eavesdropping on various conversations we decide to leave.
It had been a minor diversion on the way to the pub.  If it had been my goal, I would have been bitterly disappointed.  As it were, it was an opportunity to fluff up the credibility of my cultured self without surrendering too much time.

And yet I would find my mind wandering back to the exhibition and back to lines and what they meant and how we used them, in buildings and in building speech.  The lines that we cross, the fine line that guides us and the line we toe.  The deadline we must meet and the line we draw in the sand.  Suddenly, I got it.
The delayed realisation dawned on me, one ray at a time.  It all starts with a line, a dotted line, a swiggley line or  a curved line on the page.

We follow the line.

Even as our gaze turns out to the horizon, we follow the line and strain our eye to catch a glimpse of what lies beyond, be that the receding object of interest or the impending object of curiosity.

Sometimes we step out of line, despite those guiding contours.
And sometimes we forget our lines, like the sloppy actors that we are.