We are such stuff | as dreams are made on| and our little life | is rounded with a sleep The Tempest, William Shakespeare
|γή|
Ευχαριστώ τους εχθρούς μου, γιατί βρήκαν ένα κομμάτι γής πάνω μου να περπατήσουν, βρήκαν πνεύμονες μέσα μου να αναπνεύσουν, βρήκαν εγδορές στο δέρμα μου που εγώ είχα σκαλήσει να κοιμηθούν. Ευχαριστώ γιατί ίσως τελικά δεν ήταν εχθροί μου, ούτε εχθρικό ήταν το κομμάτι γής μου που τους καθρεύτισε, ήταν ενα βιβλίο που ακόμα δεν έιχα…
.self on canvas.
One once said “We never really encounter the world, all we experience is our own nervous system.” Life has changed. Or I have. The way I see me. The way I see in me. I remain silent for longer time. I dedicate more and more time of my dailiness to my yoga practice. I touch…
.untitled.
It’s the untitled part of me that I love the most. It includes all that is coming and all that has come. I am what you (choose) to see in me. I am what I (choose) to see in you. I am all the dreams, the failures, the pride, the sadness, the laughter, the tears,…
.dive deep.
“As one shines light into the dark of the psyche as strongly as one can, the shadows, where the light is not, grow even darker. This dark cannot be let alone. The questions cannot be hidden or forgotten. They must be asked. They must be answered. The deepest work is usually the darkest. (Dive deeper)….
.hello, my name is Athanassia.
Athanassia means immortality. And what 2016 taught me is that saying good bye rarely means it is the end. It means we move on to an other dimension. One that is not seen, it is only felt. With the heart. In the heart. 2016 was an enormous good bye for me. It made me feel…
3-2=1
Πρίν ένα χρόνο ξεκίνησα να γράφω μια ιστορία για κάτι που δεν έγινε ποτέ. Την άφησα στην άκρη, δεν ήμουν έτοιμη ακόμα. Τους τελευταίους μήνες έχω αυτή την απερίγραπτα δυνατή έλξη να γράψω, πραγματικά και μεταφορικά, σε μια άλλη διάσταση μου, πιο εσωτερική. Θυμήθηκα την ιστορία που άφησα τότε στην γωνιά. Στην πραγματικότητα την δουλεύω…
.μέσα από το παράθυρο.
Ο χρόνος του έρωτα είναι η αιωνιότητα. Σαν αυτό το ξημέρωμα. Χάραζε αργά σαν να ήθελαν τα σώματα να ζήσουν τα όνειρα λίγη αιωνιότητα ακόμα. Σαν φιγούρα γδύθηκε τη θέρμη των χεριών του και σηκώθηκε αφήνοντας το βράδυ πίσω μαζί με το χάραμα που πλησίαζε. Κοίταξε με μισάνοιχτα τα μάτια την πόλη μπροστά τους, φωτάκια…
.in the womb.
“I was conscious in my mother’s womb. Feeling the movements in her body. Aware of my own helpless state. This body bundle of bones is not I. Occasionaly, the darkness of the womb would be dispelled and light would visit me. On one side, I wanted to express myself as a human being, yet, on…
.the sunset is an temporary end.
I have this quality, or this malfunction in self preservation… When I read a book, I live in it. Same as when I listen to the lyrics of a song… I am one of the characters, I feel their pain, I feel their love. One of the books that made me reflect my own weakness…
.περί αναπνοής.
Ξεκινάμε τη ζωή μας με μια αναπνοή και αποδεσμευόμαστε από τη ζωή με μια τελευταία αναπνοή. Πρίν βουτήξουμε στα βαθειά, παίρνουμε μια μεγάλη αναπνοή, γεμίζουμε το σώμα μας με τον αέρα που περνά από τα ρουθούνια και το στόμα μας και κρατά τη καρδιά μας ζωντανή όσο διαρκεί η βουτιά. Μέχρι να ξαναβγούμε στην επιφάνεια…
.evren’s road to home.
Irvin Yalom said that “this is how wrong choices are directed: we convince ourselves that there was no other way”. The road less taken, the road never taken before and the road we took in the first place to avoid, or leave something behind, or forget, or perhaps to forgive ourselves. On his way home,…
.wordless poem.
Staying still is part of the healing process, but movement, for the body as also in life, is medicine. We have to keep on going. And when we can’t find the strength, we must search for it in what heals us. “The finding/ losing, forgetting/remembering, leaving/returning never stops.” What does making pictures mean to you?…
.silences.
Truth for anyone is a very complex thing. For a writer, what you leave out says as much as those things you include. What lies beyond the margin of the text? The photographer frames the shot; writers frame their world. When we tell a story, we exercise control, but in such a way as to…
