Self Portrait 

Run to the very top of Hoverla. Climb with an airplane and take off. The wind in your face blows away all thoughts, images, pictures, hopes, and illusions. You close your eyes and soar through the air, scattering birds. Whooooosh...

 

You can be somewhere in Rome. In Amsterdam. In Vancouver. The world at your feet. Or in the forest. In an open field with yellow wheat. It whispers something softly in the wind. Run your hand through the warm stalks, feel their velvety roughness... Then into the sea. Into the ocean. To the sperm whales. Look into their eyes. Feel the lump in your throat descending into your stomach. Propel yourself with intentions into the fresh air, with droplets all the way to the Moon.

 

Wrap yourself in its cold glow until the intensely scorching moment. Squint and touch the hot sand with your feet in the middle of the yellow desert... See a caravan in the valley... Warm yourself. Jump onto a forest clearing, hide in the hazel bushes. Take a deep breath of the pine-scented air. Inhale the air, feel the taste of pine somewhere at the back of your throat...

No. You can't escape yourself. No matter where you run, whoever you pretend to be, wherever you hide, wherever you fly... No. You can't escape. Always here, thoughts, arguments, conclusions, anxieties, fears, hopes, dreams, plans. Everything is here, all around. Embrace it. Get used to it. Lose it. Disappoint. Deceive. Train... Dream. Understand. Accept... you won't get away anywhere. Whether in an airplane or in the ocean...

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