Endgame

We look around and we don’t see, or we try not to see. If we do see, we can hardly believe it’s possible. If we look closer, the misery is there. Close by, behind closed doors. In the house next door. On the street above. Far away, filtered through the screen, distorted by the narrative, real in the mutilated bodies, in the living dead, in the dead living. Even closer, inside us.

If we look through a good lens, a long-range lens, a lens that crosses time and space, we will recognise the eternity, the inevitability, the absurdity of it all. And the human, all too human, deeply inhuman, therefore, of it all.

Also in words, repeated, worn out, fragmented, worn out, repeated, worn out, and continued, without rest. In search of the non-existent, denied, repeatedly denied meaning of what we are, who, when, where, why – for what, after all.