A sound that imitates silence.
A felted wool thread that collects the light.
Anchors that look like rocks.
Anchors that look like sticks.
A mixture of shadows.
A memory is a hallucination. It is a fiction of presence in the world, in time external to it. It will be built over and over again, until the topmost layers cover the oldest ones. A memory is like water that settles according to the shape of its container. Or leaks out from the cracks.
I build traps. Nets that catch the moment that has stopped around me. Knots tied with soft thread that become intertwined with the anchors.
I am weaving a thread that formed from becoming isolated in an island. The sounds and echoes of Örö. The memories of sitting on a cold stone. Things from the inside and the outside, a place where I/you/we used to stand. The irritating noise that suddenly became louder than anything else. The feeling of the heart beating inside the chest. The bright sun. The long shadows.
And the silence between it all.
There is someone living between the moments. Something. The part of me that cannot be reached by rational thought. The part of me that knows about the black water in the forest. That is smart enough to run away. That becomes petrified when she hears a snake hiss behind her back.
The part of me that becomes enthralled by a leaf whirling in the air, breaking the rules of reality. Not everything falls to the ground.
There’s nothing about infinity that we should strive for. After all, time is just a subjective dimension. And I am like a child who draws stick figures in the sand before the next wave comes and wipes them away.
Aino Mäntynen, 1983, Kontiolahti
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