A Better Life or an Attempt at Psychological Therapy

The photographs represent spaces, as I see them each time – once a week, merging with them, breathing in the scents, touching the objects, crossing the light flowing in from windows and the openings of curtains – I am the one who has to impose order, to remove the signs of time. While it, the eternal one, gives and takes away. I, who has been given life as a gift, which will be taken away just the same – fight time and it retaliates – consigning me to the position of an observer – people are born, become ill, die, achieve success, meet with disappointment, fall in love, get married, get separated…

My sold time is locked in within these spaces. To whom does it matter how and why I sell my time? Why do I feel dispossessed; whom am I angry with…and the sadness eating me from within, measuring an inner resistance diminishing as years pass…

A quiet emotional death – expectations and a future built in the past are buried. Words disappearing and eyes growing dim – eyes turned inwards, conscious amputation of the senses, unwillingness to cooperate – a certain death, caused, anticipated…Timely? A growing together of the tongue and palate – guttural sounds, indefinite, moaning – the horror of the new condition and of the subsequent becoming accustomed…

Is there a dimension in which money doesn’t matter, where adjectives such as ‘lost’, ‘failed’, ‘ruined’, ‘dejected’ are not being used?

I am aware that wherever I am, I do not exist as part of that space, or if I existed, then I should be an inanimate object whose purpose is to decorate, create a feeling of comfort and peace – someone having a third-tier role, invisible and untiring, if possible, independent of time and its impartiality.

Ashes over the floors – the ashes of my days…

Text and photos by Hristina Tasheva

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