Our imposed order of things gives time a direction, and all else seems to follow. But sometimes, this direction is lost, and certainty fails.
Uncertainty means chance. Do we belong here?
It seems there is another inward structure, more punctual, more concentrated, like a poem, that manifests itself when the flow of time is obstructed.
What Paul Celan wrote in his Meridian Speech — the poem claims itself at its own limits, it calls and retrieves itself from Not-anymore to Still-there to persist without pause — becomes visible in extreme natural environments. In both there is seeking beyond these limits, words there, branches here.
Is it possible to teach time to walk, to slide sideways?
Poems, like dreams, are landmarks that help us to cross what we perceive as darkness of the mind. What seems wild and empty becomes possibility.
Or do we prefer to sleep in our dreams?