The sense of the self

In the sense of the self who lingers throughout a stretched life of possible or potential changes, I feel the forgotten need to blossom and rot at times of great self-consciousness, like moss itself; blooming next to moist and damp atmospheres, but rotting at the same time on the surfaces it decides to conquer. Whether blooming or rotting, this need is there, under all layers of suppressed dreams, prominent in the dark, pushing all the other needs deeper into the subconscious tunnels of the brain. What provokes this need to appear – mostly at random moments – are the times of blurred clarity I never managed to pull through. While I sing, I dive into the postcards I had once received and dream endlessly under pink skies, about the nomad life I always thought I was destined for.

The compromise in life speaks to me at times, it sings to me, those songs of experience we sometimes forget they exist. I dive and drown my own self into the emptiness of life, into the vanity of expectations. And since expectations are hard to murder, they keep transforming into nasty birds, ready to inhabit any free and pure thought jumping out of us. Because the me becomes an us, and our minds interwind under the moonlights of our lives, under all those false images projected by the societies we never agreed on growing into.

Deadly thoughts of escapism could be liberating, but sometimes poisonous for the healthy mind, we state we own. Building up a life, under the shadows of architectural monsters – our societies – is not healthy by any form of nature; it is destructive and pointless, it is empty. Empty of the life itself, of emotions and soothing words created under inspiration. The gap between the life we have and the life we dream about should not exist. It should be trivial, small, and insignificant. It should not have a voice or a shape, it should not even be discussed. Because the true nature of things derives from real freedom to act, dream, create and be, not who we want to be, but who we truly are.


Photo: Praktica MTL 5 (1.8/50). Kodak Gold 200, 35mm film. Groningen, the Netherlands. April 2020.

Five fears & five victories

the art of letting go

When life is unfolding in front of you, it looks fake, unreal, something far away from you, something you don’t control. When words coming out of your mouth, you feel surreal, numb, out of your body. All of this is not happening, this is not your story, not your life, it feels like it’s somebody else’s, like you are drifting in a dream, like you’re in a play that was never written for you. Your lines are somebody else’s, your fears, though, are real and tangible, so tangible your heart goes numb and so real as those bones of yours. But, as time passes, you realize an unrecognizable need to let go, let go of everything you were holding on. Let go of your defenses and fully surrender to that divine feeling of ultimate calmness, of pure numbness. And yes, it does feel like those pages of your life’s book are being slowly erased, those pages are becoming blank again. And fresh ink is being given to you. To define and write your story one more time.


 

that moment when you sleep

That moment when you sleep, but you are not fully asleep, that moment is when somehow, old memories crystallize. It is the only moment when you can relive and revisit old memories. They come back to life, they are vibrant, there standing in front of your eyes. And you are unable to resist them, because they just keep coming.


 

awareness

To what this awareness owes its presence? Inner natural sensitivity to the world’s vibrations. An imprint of people’s feelings, their old souls’ thoughts. I have no answer. Either will I ever find one. My life and the facts that led to it are random. Random and yet rare.


 

confronting

It’s tough to confront your life. To look at it with no fear. To stare at it and feel calm. All our past is written in our veins. All our memories engraved on our cells. Avoiding it can’t be a solution. By confronting it we surrender to our present and eventually our glorious future. We pick up the scattered pieces and begin to rebuild our broken image (of the self). Because we have the power. The power of the past, our own unique past, which without our lives is meaningless.


 

self-consciousness

Can people really see through me like I am a transparent glass? Can they detect or even feel the great sorrow? That awful feeling of self-consciousness is beyond overwhelming. Walking down the street seems endless and painful. Everything needs some extra attention. The eyes of the people are fixed on the skin. Exposed, alone. Those eyes burn the skin, they leave an imprint, a scar. It feels like a torture no one can escape from. A mind game orchestrated by the self, the wicked self.

 

Photos: Paris, France. March 2014. Canon EOS 1000D, Canon lens 35-80mm, edited via Lightroom with VscoCam.