Coming from the deep south east of Poland, where non it was and we were told to stay blinded by what was deemed right, my development went through many phases and finally came into something of shape that I can have a grasp of. It's the things untold that fuel me beyond, it's the story caught in a glimpse of a moment, it's what doesn't seem to be in the realm of reality what passes as a dream I want to see.

Dreams are what we crave to stay as the truth we come across. I see what has not yet been as something that might be, and I intend to bring life into forms that will never be. 

Movement and expression alongside with setting and light are powerful tools that can bring us into the deepest waters of shallow frozen lakes of underground. The fact that one can close their eyes and forget about the place where one is - wouldn't it be the core of utilising the need of running away in order to see clearly as a blind seer?

Worlds can be created as we speak, and as one walks, one can let the blindness guide - until something emerges as a hopeful desire.

The verge of night embraces as she opens her eyes in the room of a forgotten hotel. She does not really know where she is, each day waking up as if she was still dreaming, even though her conscious self is there already. Not a thing passes her mind, steadily observing the ceiling fan endless spin. Walls seem to be made of thin paper, and she enjoys that rhythm conjured by vibrations running through them. All can be heard, some are screaming on the other side - there is a fight between someone constantly, and as she cannot hear the words fully, she just keeps it going inside her head.

Is this a fight of passion or are they driven by madness? A long pause brings some silence. Her veins bulge in powerful pump, providing the strength to rise, a sudden urge. Vertigo spins the head as she tries to reposition herself erect, but the bed is just too inviting. The sheets were washed ages ago, marked by a spill of reddish, already faded texture. She looks at it in despair, as if she saw something truly meaningful in just a shape of uneven discolouration. 

As she gets up, she remembers. She remembers the last night, as she stood by the building wall looking at a neon flashing. Nothing particular about it, but it was surrounded by moths, and other insects drawn to it in endless carousel. Somehow they seemed ever present, ever working mechanisms of life, without a single clue, perpetual motion, perpetual motion..

This evening was supposed to be the same as the others. She did not remember anymore why she even started, seems that then pain was too strong as it made her bitter dwelling on it. Being awoke, staying sane for the gravest of sins imaginable. Why couldn’t she be just as this moth, endlessly spinning around a source fuelling its need of movement? 

She continues looking at the neon in despair, empty gazed. The sound emitted by electricity running through it gets so intense that it almost makes her head implode. A paralysing screech, just as she dosed off on finding the right word to describe it.

What was the time? The watch - staying indifferent after seeing its glass shattered. You could not read the hour anymore, and she was not even sure if it worked, maybe it was broken forever. Time was an illusion, as real for her as for everybody else. Was everybody even there? As she stood under the light bloom, now deeply embraced with contemplation, passing people seemed to walk indifferently, yet leaving mark;, as if her sight was reduced by half: some of the frames registered by her mind elongated, the figures left a curved shadowy silhouette after them. She was dosing off, unsure if she had taken anything.

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