POST #003 — “WHERE THE COLORS LISTEN”
Footage captured via direct braindance logging. No overlays. No narrative prompts. Interpret as you see fit.
It wasn’t on any registry. No tag. No artist signature. No AR beacon. Just a wall—forgotten, humming faintly with smart-ink. It appeared overnight on the east edge of Heywood, along a collapsed rail spine. The locals call it the painting that listens.
I came expecting stunt marketing. Maybe a mood-linked ad prototype from someone hoping to impress Ziggurat. Instead, it was… quiet. Intentional.
At 01:12 in the BD, the pattern shifts. No prompt. No contact. Just presence. The mural responds—not with imagery, but with feeling. The ink pulls into slow-moving shapes, cool color washes, the outline of two figures. One walking away from the other. The second fading—blurring. It wasn’t a memory. Not exactly. But it was close enough to hurt.
At 02:03, the emotional spike hits. Subtle in the footage. Not in me.
I came back the next day. The mural had changed again—same medium, same silence. But the tone was different. Like it had listened. Like it had remembered.
Others who’ve stood in front of it report seeing different things. Personal things. It doesn’t speak. It doesn’t repeat. It reflects.
I’ve run scans. There’s no standard data stream. No outside projection. The ink carries trace biotech—barely legal, but not proprietary. I don’t know what this is. An art experiment? A psychological bleed? A memory siphon?
But it knows silence. And it knows what we leave behind.
[🔗 BD-Archive-003: “Where the Colors Listen”] (Viewer warning: Playback may evoke dormant emotional memories. Use grounding routines if necessary. Proceed solo.)
I tell the truth so no one can take it from me again. But sometimes, the truth is soft. And I miss it. I’m sorry, my muse.
