At first glance
this looks like a stained-glass window
for a religion that worships
delay, overlap and “oops, I double-booked myself.”

Thick black lines,
heavy as underlined emails,
slash across the page
in every forbidden direction.

Between them
color wedges push for space:
magenta elbows green,
yellow negotiates with turquoise,
purple pretends to be philosophical,
blue just wants a quiet corner
to think about the ocean in peace.

Each triangle is convinced
it is the main character.

This is a city map,
says the red stripe.
You just have to know
where you meant to go.

This is a brain scan,
insists the yellow.
Every crossing is a decision
you postponed until further notice.

You’re both wrong,
says one of the diagonal blacks.
I am the path
of a single thought
trying to avoid responsibilities.

It runs from corner to corner,
swerving only to dodge
reasonably good arguments.

If you follow it with your finger,
you can hear
the tiny panting of cognition:
“Not now, not now,
also not this,
absolutely not that.”

Along the way
it passes small districts of color:

The lilac Neighborhood of Almost.
The green Avenue of Good Intentions,
always under construction.
The cobalt Deadlines,
which look solid
but fade conspicuously
when you check them closely.

Everywhere, glassy shapes press together
like commuters in a rush-hour abstraction.
The loudspeaker of the picture announces:

Attention please,
the train of clear meaning
will not be arriving today.
We apologize for the convenience.

People sigh in several colors at once.

Somewhere in the upper left,
a mustard-yellow trapezoid
has a small nervous breakdown.
It was promised a pure monochrome life—
just one job, one label—
but now magenta has crept in,
blue has left its thumbprint,
and a sliver of green expectation
is stuck in the corner.

The trapezoid mutters:
“I was supposed to be certainty.
Look at me now—
I’m a blended hypothesis.”

In the lower right,
a tiny blue shard
believes it is the sea.
It practices waves in miniature,
rippling along its two millimetres of existence.
Every time a diagonal black line
passes over it,
it imagines a shipwreck,
or at least a lost flip-flop.

A nearby pink parallelogram
prepares a manifesto:

We, the Minor Shapes
of this diagram,
demand equal attention
and the right
to be misinterpreted.

The big black lines
laugh across their intersections.
They are tired
of carrying all the emphasis.

They remember the day
they were drawn:
one decisive swipe,
no hesitation,
the marker almost arrogant.

Since then they’ve been stuck
as structure,
while the colors keep arriving
in thin, transparent layers,
soft rebellions that dry slowly
and whisper behind their backs.

At some crossings
the lines hesitate,
their edges fuzzed slightly,
as if the hand paused for a breath,
or the idea reconsidered
its life choices.

Those are the dangerous points,
the structural maybes.
If you stare at them long enough
you can feel
your own plans wobble.

This is not just a picture.
It’s a user interface
for chance encounters.

Each little rhombus
is a moment when two stories
could have intersected
and didn’t,
or did,
or almost did
but then someone decided
to stay home and scroll.

The green strip over there—
yes, that one—
is Tuesday evening.
All the red ones
are conversations in public transport
that nobody will remember
but everybody will absorb.

Yellow is the time
you thought of sending the message
and didn’t.

Blue is what might have happened
if you had.

The black diagonals
are the excuses you gave yourself.

Somewhere in this grid
hides a small, invisible pig,
as always with your pictures.
Today it chooses stealth mode,
oink encrypted as geometry.

It wanders along the intersections,
truffle-sniffing for meaning,
finding only
overlapping colors and uncertainty.

The pig shrugs,
as much as an unseen pig can shrug,
and declares in perfect Dada:

“Very good.
Meaning is best served
slightly undercooked.”

It then curls up
on a green-pink border
and falls asleep,
dreaming of monochrome fields
where lines run straight
and are therefore terribly boring.

Back in the visible world,
the painting hums softly.
It feels like standing inside
a cathedral built by highlighters,
where the sun is replaced
by unfinished to-do lists
and the choir is composed of
overlapping commitments.

Light comes through the chaos
in narrow bands,
casting little rainbows
on your expectations.

You realize,
suddenly,
that no single line here
knows the whole picture.

Each one just follows its own vector,
doing its best
not to fall off the page.

The image only works
because they all refuse
to agree on a common direction.

It’s an anarchist transit map,
a sociology of detours,
a Dada diagram of lived life:
never linear,
rarely clean,
always more colorful
than the narrative afterwards.

If you step back,
the mess almost turns harmonious.
If you step closer,
the harmony dissolves into quarreling segments.

The trick, apparently,
is to stand at exactly
the wrong distance—

close enough
to feel the confusion,
far enough
to enjoy it.