It never happens in such a manner that you can directly observe it. It always happens as a slow unraveling ... There is no single point, no direct indication of "This is where it happened". There is no crime scene, no originary moment to which one might return. There is only the slow unravelling, the slow chipping away of marble that at some point turn into a moment of realisation.
Only in that moment, only thinking back on what was, what was... only then can you see what happened, only then can you realise what the unraveling reveals. A slow degradation, a slow change that has no perceptible grip you can hold onto.
And then, after that moment, after realising what happened, what has been lost, what one loses to the slow violence of unraveling, you finally succumb to life's violence: there is nothing lost, nothing gained, everything lost, and nothing to remember.
These are the moments of a mad rambling, a unclear and chaotic threat that imposes itself onto you.
These are the moments in which reality seems stranger than fiction.
These moments of chaotic "unclarity", seems to be the most clear, the most logical. Illogical are the moments we understand, we categorise. Through categories we break the will of life, the world that seems chaotic becomes natural, only to realise that that natural "feeling" is itself a type of madness. For is life's chaos not just that, chaotic moments we systematically make sense of, but when we slowly take a step back, we are sobered by the fact that random events, chaotic moments, and what we think is life, is merely unfoldment continually folding back onto itself?
In a world full of AI writing, so clear, so legible, my own writing has become illegible ramblings of madness. All of the photographs are my own, the writings are also my own.
