Layered Cracks, Blue Trim

In the loft of this empty house, in the breezy room where farmer's wives would brush their hair and dirty children would be bathed, there was a nearly stifling feeling of calm. The mirror was dirty but intact, not like many in the houses nearby.

The layered paint formed a kind of abstract diorama of the history of the place: discovery, wartime, the farming and nursing years, final abandonment and recent rejuvenation. I could see stories in the dirt and the shadows, in highlights and scars that divided the wall into sections.

This photograph has become a favourite of mine. It reminds me of how it might feel to gradually lose control of one's senses: to slowly, surely watch one's mind take seed like a summer dandelion. It would be a terrifying journey, to be sure, but perhaps an exhilarating and liberating one too.