In shadows and silhouettes of worn-out beliefs, even in science, literature and the arts we look for a representation of this thing we call the ‘I’.
With one long forced gulp of breath, in its infinite quilted patches of grey we sprint. Through life’s noisy roads, breathless and tired we search for meaning – a place to call our own, a space to find the self somewhere within this world.
In the midst of the noise, tired and breathless we construct an inauthentic ‘I’, a replication of the shadow world. An imposture who always feels displaced and stretched-out too thin, a servant in constant state of bending and blending in the endless sea of serpents’ grey. In the turmoil of the illusion with its demands for conclusions and end-products, the self forgets that the ‘I’ is yet to be. It forgets that the ‘I’ imitates to become, follows to find its way, regurgitates ideas to find its own voice — this is not the place to settle down, to unpack the contents of one’s soul.
If there is unease under the shadows and in the grids of streets made of noise, stop moving: stand still, close your eyes – breath…exhale! Than, breath again. There – in the silent gaps of in-between – the authentic ‘I’ will begin to sing – in its own voice. It will begin to take steps and soon it will dance its own dance – in full spectrum of movement and colours of its own universe.
It is in the silences of the in-between, within enfolds where the world of grey ends its articulation and you begin yours.
Breath.
Parisa Yazdi
