In my eyeholes lurks the world

In my eyeholes lurks the world. It grows as it goes, with every step.
I am surrounded by a new landscape, slowly flowing in.
I see.

The first day of a year.
A bright red sun over gray clouds.
Crumbs in the sea.
On each one a house. 

Heavy water.
Even darker as the sky above.
Wet purple rocks.
Like beached whales.
Too slippery to walk on.
Moss, seaweed, pebbles and shells.
The stage formed by the waves.
I try not to slip. 

Red and blue ribbons on the trees.
Or a dot on a bark in the distance.
I stumble over their roots, a dull tap.
They are not going anywhere.
The stones are rusty.
Broken and melted.
Between needles and apples.
At four o'clock the sun sets. 

Another mountain.
Or at least, it seems that way.
Chasing fresh tracks.
Away from ice cream.
Above the clouds with cracked lips
And I think of words.

I find a folding rule and sand off the markings. 

A helicopter hovers up and down.
Carries the forest to another place.
Trees dance briefly in the air.
The walls complain, watching.
A mechanical chorus fills the void between the Fjords.
Leaving emptiness behind.
Lost or lost. 

The earth is a sponge, just like my gaze.
My feet push out her sweat.
Everything shines and reflects.
Mountains are grinded, stones transported.
Rainwater, meltwater, groundwater, seawater.
My thoughts flow with it.
From top to bottom.
To the deepest.
But a form remains out. 

I peel the image from an incomplete puzzle finished. 

I don't know this road yet.
Filled with the recognizable, yet not previously seen.
Past mossy trees and slumped rotten huts.
Which one is older? 

The snow erases more and more, dissolves more and more.
I want to go where the sky is.
A walk into nothingness, my sight tingles.
I decide to turn around. 

The incessant murmur of a waterfall highlights the branches and grass in space.
A visible wind rushes between the trees, creating a forest lined with mirrors.
My hands tremble with cold and I try to measure the light.
For this wall of ice.
Internally, water trickles down it.
Where the sun does not come it grows unseen.
As if the darkness fed him. 

But what am I looking for here?
Something going on inside me?
Something that needs to be exposed?
An unfilled void?
Woe is me, on this cold rock.
Woe is me, I must be feeling something, right?
Where is my sea of fog? 

Wandering the paths, foot by foot.
But my thoughts lag behind.
Dead ends in my head.
Exactly like the insignificance of the environment.
If only I could be as indifferent as a mountain. 

I draw words from the depths to describe her with.
But they don't seem to fit together.
There is no space between the letters.
Purely unspoken feelings.
Things we can't reach anyway.
Although it is all ours. 

While talking to myself I keep peering at my feet. My vision bumps and I cannot see beyond the surface. No matter how soft the moss seems, I dare not touch it. Then I briefly look up again. The cloud cover that stretches like a tent canvas between the mountain peaks, flapping for a moment Softly along on the wind as the waves flow on the sea. A bird flies by, swallowed up in the light. In this desolation, nothing needs a destination, but can move forward into something far beyond our horizon. 

My eyes are flooding.
Like tears, the landscape comes out again.
And spreads to everything I seem to touch with my hands.
I mean space.
Space means me.
I stare across the fjord. Who knows, maybe someone will look back 

Koen Kievits (1996) spent three winter months at Kunstnarhuset Messen in Ålvik, Norway. By creating photographic works and installations and by editing existing objects and images, he explores how we experience the space around us and how images influence our perceptions in it. 

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