half & hour in the 51th maria odolbatu
I galder izagirre (Brasov-Errumania-Romania)
We look outside when we feel safe inside. But the outside is inside us, too. The outside is with us. It’s alive. With us in our inner Independent Republic and solitude where happiness is a species in danger of extinction. There is a place in the middle of nowhere. The place where birds escape from.
A place that sees people approach in silence.
A rubbish dump for amour-plated hearts where we hide our happiness and misery.
Our inner Independent Republic and Solitude.
Many with their burdens on their shoulders flee this place. 51 and the same journey a thousand times over. Fleeing ahead.
Many drag their burdens with them to this place. 51 and the same journey a thousand times over. Retreating back.
There are no frontiers in our inner Independent Republic and Solitude. They have been wiped from the memory maps of the people.
That’s why dreams are flying around free, waiting for someone to capture and release them.
And that’s why the inhabitants have round hearts, so that feelings can change direction and turn around.
Always spinning, spinning, spinning. Never-ending spinning...
Appease hunger with life and life with dreams.
Meanwhile, on the outside silence silently observes.
We are quiet in the surroundings.
But we’re not alone. We have ourselves for company.
Time does not exist in our inner Independent Republic and Solitude. It stopped half an hour ago.
Some of them are searching but it’s of no use anyhow.
The only thing to do is to look inside.
And don’t look back.
Happiness is a place in the middle of nowhere.
A small place where birds and people arrive to.
A small place from whence birds and people flee.
We look outside when we feel safe inside. But the outside is inside us, too. The outside is with us. It’s alive. With us in our inner Independent Republic and solitude where happiness is a species in danger of extinction. There is a place in the middle of nowhere. The place where birds escape from.
A place that sees people approach in silence.
A rubbish dump for amour-plated hearts where we hide our happiness and misery.
Our inner Independent Republic and Solitude.
Many with their burdens on their shoulders flee this place. 51 and the same journey a thousand times over. Fleeing ahead.
Many drag their burdens with them to this place. 51 and the same journey a thousand times over. Retreating back.
There are no frontiers in our inner Independent Republic and Solitude. They have been wiped from the memory maps of the people.
That’s why dreams are flying around free, waiting for someone to capture and release them.
And that’s why the inhabitants have round hearts, so that feelings can change direction and turn around.
Always spinning, spinning, spinning. Never-ending spinning...
Appease hunger with life and life with dreams.
Meanwhile, on the outside silence silently observes.
We are quiet in the surroundings.
But we’re not alone. We have ourselves for company.
Time does not exist in our inner Independent Republic and Solitude. It stopped half an hour ago.
Some of them are searching but it’s of no use anyhow.
The only thing to do is to look inside.
And don’t look back.
Happiness is a place in the middle of nowhere.
A small place where birds and people arrive to.
A small place from whence birds and people flee.
