It feels cold, oppressive, yet somehow fragile and naive. The leaves are grey; the earth is still, the sky is vast and unknown all around me and above me. Images seem to reflect on every surface, sounds seem to reverberate, although the silence pounds against my eardrums and sucks all noise out, all air out, leaving me instead with a stifling void and utterly breathless. The space seems endless, like a torrent of images soaring past me, through me, under my feet and over my head with the speed of a motion picture. I can focus each picture separately; each fragment of my surrounding seems to belong to itself as much as to the whole it helps create.
Everything around me is colourless, expressionless, hollow and alone. I am the only speck of colour—a bright red, almost ostentatious against the bland landscape. I try to retreat into myself, to make my presence in this surreal place less noticeable, but somehow it seems as if I am meant to be the focus point of an over-sized photograph. I’d like to see this photo that includes me from the outside; I’d like to be its subject but also the one to take it. The perspective is blurred up, smudged, and I feel as if I am a blotch of ink on a finished canvas.
I am misplaced, the misfit, the one who does not belong to this magical world of being and not being, this world that holds no other living creature. It feels like walking into a mysterious place, like stumbling upon a secret, like wandering through different dimensions of life. It feels as if I have been born several times, like being born in birth, being born in death and dying in birth.
It feels like sleepwalking into a black and white universe.
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