Our brains are funny. Perhaps. They filter and choose of what the depths of our hearts desire to see. Biased. Selective. Yet, alarming. of the reality. Of one’s desires. Of the absences. Or the truth. Perhaps.
“A secret sadness that contains hedonism/consumerism pleasure permeated the 21st century. ”
“Frustration+anger+self-disgust+something is missing”
Kodwo Eshun, Mark Fisher Memorial Lecture, 2018
When I go to my room to rest. to find rest. something is itching. something is cutting the space. Inside. The inner child in me is weeping. Pierced by a bullet. Unstoppably. Yet, I lay down without a tear. I don’t know why I cannot, why I cannot cry and let it go, and be OK again.
I wish for that affective proximity. Of ending isolation and connecting. Of losing my oneness, of consenting not to be a single being. Of connecting. Not just by the surface. But in all. To melt. To feel and to give.
That was yesterday.
While I still long and desire, my heart is well. When entering the gallery today – I discovered that my favourite smell is sanded wood. My place of peace is composed of bright wooden floors, warmth in the space, aesthetics, curiosity, and harmony. And soothing colours. It is made of people not intervening but moving in the symphony. In slow motions. Stopping to see, to investigate, to care.