THE WANDERER,
aloot, free in fawn, in his own forest. Six days of sun, seven midnights of moon he mumbled himself into his own language, which only he understood. Heavens, he thought, were to be reflected unto this earth he walked on, the starry skies writing their woe in wet lands, through this tempted wanderer, carving his innermost cares with stones. Every now and then, he would look into the forest, seeing the light brightly emanate itself down the hills, licking, mimicking its surroundings. Crowned sun, how could the wanderer try to align himself to this unconquered sun, how could the wanderer even attempt to catch the glory and godly gloom of this sun, how could the wanderer even think to resemble this king, which would lose his crown at night, this sun. The wanderer would not try attempt any of these, he would wander away, ponder deeper into the forest and lay himself, down by the streams, where the river flows, where the light gleams, there, where the spirit glows, remember that place, where you keep these dreams, intensely. How else could the fierce force of the heavens be reflected unto this earth?
THE NOCTURNAL, without lights is much better. I cannot stand it when the lights are on, everything is suddenly on! You know? ON! I cannot stand it. Turn it off. When the lights are on, everything becomes, it takes shape for the eyes and becomes something. When it is dark, there is nothing. And maybe everything. I am not preaching blindness, quite frankly rather to really look, and I mean really look. To achieve that, you need darkness. Last night, I went out to look at the full moon. It was bright, getting its light from the sun, shining on a forest somewhere. Even though, its light is not its own, I prefer the moon. You know? It is not like you always want the best, the nr.1 right? Sometimes you can have deep connection to the second one. I tell you right now downright and straight I hate number 1s. I prefer the second one, the darkness, the cities, maybe industries, deeper pipelines, fermented feces, petrol puke, sperm, not neat, intestines, meat, hate the bed, fuck me in the trashcan, behind the shop, where they hang puppets, suck my cunt, my evercock, where I can smell your dirty body, lick it clean, tear you apart drink and devour your dark, give me your grey and I will turn it black. You know ? How else could humanity investigate its most inner and secret, shitty, severed, suppressed and supreme sections?
Karen NIkgol
Curator