For a moment my words found home, I went around in circles blinded but guided by an inner rhythm, I was a traveler and stayed in places in people, for that fleeting relief that was familiar to me.
I realized that we dream all the time, even with our eyes open when our eyes remain anchored on the horizon is when we are most inside lost in daily hypnosis, waiting for something that we do not know what it is or where it comes from, or if not we go to it.
The time that seems to be solid vanishes in a perception, in our language, and so we return to that prehistoric time where we did not communicate and we were guided by nothingness but we were more united.
At that point where identities dissolve like drops in the sea and we return for an instant that is eternity to be who we are, nothing and everything.
It is a constant giving up and waking up, surrendering to nothingness, waking up from a dream that didn't happen because we are back home.
And it was all an answer to a question that brought me here, now we all go back home, I see myself in the other and the borders fade away as ideas mutate depending on who we are at every instant. Healing has become a constant recognizing where I end and the other begins like a constant flow of the waves of the sea on the sand.
For a moment I remembered home, and I seek to see it in every piece of that dream that we are, that we bring with us, that dream of something that is dreamed.
I have realized that we do not know when will be the last time that our energy will be concrete in the concrete and that always as abstractions we see ourselves not ephemeral, but sometimes you realize that there will not be time to make the work of art, which will leave our mark here, and it is when we feel the pulse that directs us and invades us silence, emptiness and looks make sense, the words all that carries a synchronicity where you are involved and at the same time you are the creative observer. Nostalgia takes us back home on that trip where the companion is oneself, where the dream is the illusion of home, because we always were, we never left, we were always awake. We were always our home.
Photographers: Anne-Sophie Landou
I write about what nobody wants to know, I'm a photographer and coolhunter for a Chilean magazine and I write for sites like cultura colectiva, I'm a chef and wanderlust, I'm learning to play the violin, I'm a vegetarian and in the process of becoming a teetotaler.