While standing by the edge of the forest, a person looks tiny, almost fragile. Then they step into the woods and disappear. To find a trail one needs to confront their stereotypes. I wonder if hunting is about the pursuit to control nature.
I stay and keep collecting memories of days that repeat each other, never being the same. As the days pass by I find my thoughts being related more to space rather than time. What is once done becomes irreversible as in what is seen cannot be unseen. Who isn’t vulnerable in this world?
One day the forest is cut down but the roots stay, they are deep in the ground.