I have an old memory. One of those that you barely remember, but it is always with you. Summer. For some reason, I am asleep in my parent’s room on the floor. I’m eight years old. I get up very early and go outside. My parents sleep soundly and no one minds that I go outside. The sun has just jumped on the horizon, and on the street, not a single soul— all the streets are mine. I wander not far from home. Behind our yard, almost immediately is the sea. Everything is all calm and warm rays. The air is slow and soft. I go alone and I feel good. Nobody is around. Then I went to the courtyard, where I was immediately seen by the dog and quickly ran home. I cautiously went in and lay down again. Inside was so good. I closed my eyes and fell asleep again.
I lived in my hometown since birth. Only now, at 23, I ventured to leave, seeking thrills, but this place always calls me back.
I will forever return. I have experienced all kinds of feelings at home: from a great desire to leave, and to mad love, when I don’t want to leave my place, because you peeped over the curtain. Melancholy, admiration, vulnerability, lightness, and at the same time, the feeling of something heavy.
I walked a lot along the shore and the fields. Much time was spent amongst these streets, hours flowing down them. It seemed to have no purpose, but there were always thoughts in the footsteps.
And this walk is half asleep, as if I’m small and everything is simple and easy.
And in this work I wanted to convey my feelings
what I feel and see
i’m at home