"Je suis le plus malade des surréalistes."

How much darkness can be found in human.

A mind appearing to be cloudy, spinning cloudless from within its skeleton.

They see a fog encircling the head, a crown on a thousand-year-old diver. But the diver sees everything translucend.

Through sparkling screens - distorted. Through bleached, stretched neurons - sprawled, tense muscles - moist and clean enclosed in bone, the clarity that abdicates of her aethereal nature, of her escape through the gaps of the joints, of liberty.

How thin the shade between reality and illusion - illusion for the others, because for those who live in illusion, it is all but reality.

We all live our own reality - so where does objectivity stand?

"You're not crazy [...] I see all you see, I feel all you feel."

If I see all you see and I feel all you feel, does it mean that we see and feel the objective reality?

Or that we are both insane?



-- On Anais Nin & Antonin Artaud