The branches extend like contorted nerves across the sky. I wonder if I fell, would the sky catch me. There would be nothing to hold on to but those branches. I wouldn’t even grab them.
I don’t know how I came to be here. From the inside there doesn’t seem to even be a way in. But if I wonder, the problems cease, at least for the time being. People seem to know what they are doing, but know very little about what they aren’t. I see my brother in those branches. We were all there together in 1978. But some of us came here, and some of us went elsewhere. At the time we weren’t sure who, but things worked out, and some things didn’t. That’s the point.
Between me and the sky, there lies some dark, inscrutable, vacuous mass, something undeniable. I see through to the other side, where visible things dangle, totally unreachable. Those leaves rest against the sky like the carved hollows of missing fossils. The breeze bends them, they do not bend themselves.
Text by Shahin Firoozmand, photo by Anton Hazewinkel