OMSALBA

Being weathered is sending a new thing to remote past. It is not the time of endless polishing and cutting out by the name of careness. The time of being weathered is the process of changing alone by winning a solitude, and the only companion is naturality. The weathered being is completed while under nobody's watching, and its past is left in the mysteries and assumptions.

The winged being in the picture looks about to take off. But it is unknowable, why it is stopped, whether it is still running against the wind or not and who it is. Something we can sure about is the fact that it isn't flying now.

Along the cosiness of solitude, I fear that it is me.