“In this air, you only get to breathe properly at night. Sometimes, my night slip slowly sticks to my skin like a deep jelly that’s about to drip. I can feel the sweat becoming part of my attire, like a gown that’s too hard to undress, like peach syrup melting under skimpy sun. The city has no smell and my fragrance dissolves itself nearly before touching my neck. I’m getting new freckles on my nose and cheeks, and while all languages of the world collapse in my head like providential rain, I still ache for cold sea breezes and unfinished sympathies with strangers in trains.
The thing is, since I arrived here I have no sense of home any more. But a sense of displacement that runs through every step, every little action I take, like a momentary reminder that I’m lost. I don’t like the beach here and it feels as if I’ve landed months ago. Time has a strange way to dilate. As if the heat has taken over and exchanged the currencies for what minutes, seconds and smaller time measures mean. I have lost my sense of belonging. I don’t feel familiar with the music that’s been following me on my iPod. I speak my own language but the experience doesn’t feel vast. I listen to all these come home songs that make me feel stressed and distressed. Is this my anxiety ridden feel or is it something else? I just can’t seem to connect. All my former aches and pains for belonging seem stuck, so does the future. A constant is the bubble.
Sometimes, in the morning heat, I study myself in the full body mirror. My shapes have changed. My skin looks fulfilled, my breasts seem fuller, my face has seem to have forgotten about eczema. So strange. Like the weather is in the favour of my health. But my mind still thinks – why is nobody enjoying this body, this old body that feels alone and craves to be to be touched by a man’s arms, that wants to unravel. I wonder if that will ever happen again. I procrastinate in finding a job and land all my hopes to this Berlin job. But somehow this one feels fake too. Am I getting crazy? Was this a wrong decision? I just can’t seem to enjoy anything. I feel like Sylvia Plath reckoning her madness in the teenage summer she depicted in The Bell Jar. Who am I? Where do I head? I have no idea and time is not my friend any more”
All shot by Ioana Cristina Casapu, Barcelona, 2015