top of page

I've never truly felt the world as "real".

I mean, yes, I see it all around me, I hear the sound produced by cars going by my window, my brain lights up when a warm feeling of another's touch graces my hand, but is it really real?

All I have to go by is the chemical processes, happening inside my body, directing my mind to believe that what I experience is real. I wonder if the world feels the same way about me, we're like two entities, trying to cross the line between a perceived "objectivity" and what I truly believe to be real - the aberrations of consciousness, yet the threshold of skin doesn't budge one bit, we're left isolated as much as we'd like to converge into one.


I've been thinking of running away. I think I've always been thinking that, as far as I remember. The problem is while a younger version of me imagined that there's always a place to run to, be it another town, country, continent, maybe in some time, planet, but as I've grown older I've realised that the only place I could run to is inside, deeper into the abyss of the human experience, as finding an understanding there is no different from here - it's impossible for the hedgehogs to keep warm in winter.


Yet we keep trying, trying to portray, to speak, to scream out the demons, resting in the dark caves of our being which nobody else can understand or to even prove existence of and we hurt, scratch deep scars into our each other's skins, medals of traumas of time and unattainable intimacy - humans thrive within this paradox, we cannot exist without it.

I want to invite you to peel away your skin and enter into mine, to experience how I feel, to see anger, pain, sorrow, absolute unadulterated happiness in the colours I see it in.

It might be in vein, but then again, how can we be sure if we don't try it, what if the skin is porous after all.

Eh bien, continuons, Joseph Garcin.

The door is open, I want to feel the inside of your skin.

bottom of page