“How hard is it, when everything encourages us to sleep, though we may look about us with conscious, clinging eyes, to wake and yet look about us as in a dream, with eyes that no longer know their function and whose gaze is turned inward.”
― Antonin Artaud, The Theater and Its Double
He is a writhing, squirming, fiending thing. A figure so lost within the folds of his subconscious desires that it has become entirely his conscious being. With no reins to yield the claws unfurling, he moves beyond the scorches left by his own wounds. Raw; wet; prickly wounds. He’s hopeless in his release, only managing to breathe gasps of sanity with eyes blinded.
Author: Kiana Vaziri
Image Credit: @takaphilography