TRAPEZIUM NO 2

Angles collide, sharp and unyielding. Colors shift, rigid yet restless. The world is divided into edges—lines drawn, paths blocked, voices fractured.

No. 1 burns with primary boldness, a deception of structure, a mirage of certainty. Red, blue, yellow—order in chaos, or chaos pretending to be order? The black divides, like rulers drawing borders, like power cutting through reason. The gold lines promise wealth, promise prosperity, but they are fragile, stretched too thin.

No. 2 is the tension of change, the in-between, the breaking of illusions. Blues deepen, purples pulse, mustard clings to something resembling hope. Yet, murk seeps in—greenish, brownish, uncertain. The lines waver, the borders blur, as truth is rewritten, rebranded, repackaged.

No. 3—the aftermath. Earth tones, muted remnants of what once was. The fire has burned, the structure remains, but its hues have faded. Orange flickers, a last desperate reach for relevance. The grid persists, but it is weaker, stretched beyond its limit. The lines now ghosts of their former strength.

A trapezium is never stable. It is a shape in motion, a system in imbalance. Like us. Like everything.