The consciousness of being; how i feel weird in this body and only recognise myself when i look in the mirror. In my head; Faces become deformed and experiences abstract. My skin melts. My hands are too big.
In a world that is chaotic, either within one self or outside. I need the crawling in a story or poem. I am made of them.
Individualism sounds like an illusion when i zoom in or out in just the right amount. Where ‘I’ is cells or where ‘I’ is nature, where no one has a face, or the same one. Still the character of someone interests me. How it grows and has developed in something recocnisable and that it is able to be named.
The mother of my living is ‘timeless’. This is where I find myself: in the calmness and loneliness of timelessness.