Rooms For Rent
Mark LOREM IPSUM
Rooms for rent



The light has never been an acquaintance of mine. Like a co-worker you see around the corners of the office and during brief elevator encounters, however you have never been formally introduced to them, therefore you vaguely smile at their presence, but ignore it as a whole. The realization that something exists, that its at arms reach, even though we do not know its taste, scent or feel.

At the beginning we wonder what it's like- as curiosity is a trait highly pronounced in us humans- yet throughout time we gradually lose interest in making this acquaintance, as we tend to use ignorance as a defense mechanism to deal with whatever we know does not belong to us.

Whenever people have asked what seems to be wrong with me, I have tried to explain it as simply as I possibly can: imagine a cold, dark room and every candle you try to light in it for a bit of light, is rapidly blown out by unseen wind gusts. A room whose walls are ever moving, ever shifting, ever smothering. Whose floor is rough and you are wearing no shoes, so you crawl. Like a baby, you crawl.


Mark LOREM IPSUM


Mark LOREM IPSUM
For self-preservation, after some time you start to make a home out of this place. You sing about its coldness, you write about its darkness and you laugh about its blown out candles. You photograph its ever changing walls to capture their movement on camera and you read novels to the floor, in the hope that it will make it somehow softer.

However, you can never do enough of this that it will eventually make you see the light. Like blind people who can sometimes see flashes of it, contradicting science and reason, so can I and that is my burden. Everything beautiful that I have ever created is only there because of my misery. No radiant person has even inspired any poems. No cheerful fella has ever brought tears to my eyes and no happy crowd has ever made me think of revelry. I told my therapist once that I did not want him to fix me. Because fixing me would be to gently strip me from my art, to narrow the wide corridors of my mind. “Do not empty me”, I begged him, sickly. He smiled like my stranger colleagues in the elevator. He put down his notes, prescribed me my monthly medication and while handing it over to me, he calmly said: “Okay ma’am, I’ll see you next week”.




Mark LOREM IPSUM


Mark LOREM IPSUM