r e c o v e r y
Recovery is a series of self portraits documenting the depression and loneliness I felt during quarantine and isolation times. The craving for a touch, for company.
The isolations and limitations associated with corona virus pose major challenges for people suffering from depression. Because in depression, everything negative in life is perceived in an enlarged manner and moved to the center. Every person cope differently with this very special situation of isolation and loneliness.
This is how our love began as the isolations due the corona virus started.
Special thanks to my beloved
A b e l a r d o M a r q u e z
for the following text:
D e p r e s s i o n and l o n e l i n e s s in times of i s o l a t i o n and the recovery by love
I found myself in a void.
Suddenly, I couldn’t tell how I got here,
so a dream must have been.
But my voice was harsh of crying for someone.
And only the echo hits my desert skin.
I crave for touch, for a word, for a hug.
I crave for the company I never needed.
But now when I‘m imposed to exile,
when my mind is not distracted
by buildings and people,
my loneliness comes out to play and reminds me:
I was alone in a sea of faces.
But at the time I swan across it,
now I‘m tired and drowning
among the echo of my voice,
the only one I‘ve heard for days.
It‘s roaming around, I know it. I felt its presence days ago and it can‘t be ignored anymore. A myth, a horror story I told myself. A fiction of days long forgotten, but it‘s back.
The dark silhouette of loneliness. A wild animal that lurked under my bed. I can see it in the corner of my room and disappear with the sudden sound of my mobile. A flickering sound that reminds me there are more like me. More islands of humans looking for something. Dealing with their own ghosts. I answer. I write. In the end, I’m left as I started. Alone with a beast roaming in my room. It’s feeding. And I really don’t know how to tell it to go away. I can’t help but wonder: What is more dangerous nowadays? Inhale the affliction or to let it sprout in my head?
The void. The flickering light. The recurring noise of my mobile sleeping next to me. How mere simple activities as getting into the packed subway and avoiding people gave so much distraction to my head? Running out of people, trying to find myself alone. And now I am. When I have no more need to think of escaping and I find myself completely alone. All the thought are centered in me. I think of today, the future and the end of things. Will I ever see the faces of the ones I care? Of the ones I‘m not running from? Will I ever run towards someone? I can‘t remember the last ‚Happy‘ thought I had since last week.
My mind wonders following the spirals of smoke. I‘m as close as I ever been to ‚ok‘, for days. The notes sound again and my body is faster than my thoughts as I get the screen next to my face. Him. What is this? I feel warm. A long-forgotten feeling is coming back to me. I haven‘t seen the shadow in days. I find myself laughings and the camera shows another me. Please, sing your melody again! I have so many more things to say to you. So many things to read. I write.
The shuffled playlist was playing, and it was the 13th day.
From my balcony I could see the empty streets in the middle of the foggy day. The cold wind wrapped my naked arms, but I stopped feeling any senses three days ago. My eyes focused to the minimal drops of rain falling; building tiny transparent lines as spiderwebs and I felt jealous of them, of their freedom, of them daring to conquer the heights and one minute and twenty five seconds before my mind decided to jump together with them to the asphalt, she wrote.
H e l l o :) .
Surrounded by the noises of the night and distorted guitars, dressed in a tight black shirt with skulls and Chardonnay, matching teared fishnets that caught couple fantasies of mine and nights of sleep, was her. I didn’t give enough time to my surprise or to the calculations on my head about the last time I knew about her. Our interactions always fell into a vortex of uncertainty and hopelessness, but there was always the constant feel of rapture when after the pointless dance of texts we met somewhere around the busy streets of graffiti and clandestine.
She could perfectly blend in it, with the delicate ink on her arms and memories coloured in one thousand and one shades of black. With every story that came from her lips I naively though had a new piece of the puzzle of her history, but she was actually cracking open another anecdote inside an endless collection of Russian dolls leading to the depths of some desert million miles away. As a siren, I couldn’t stop listening, I couldn’t stop thinking and avoiding the right advice of fellow sailors. I always threw myself into the abyss of her honey eyes. The minute I read her text I realised I’ve always stayed there, resting in her serpentine eyebrows.
I w r o t e b a c k .