The image has its own existence. It affects us and we affect it. Each image has a unique voice, that is ever-changing as we are. Below is the image speaking.
The white zone wants to suck in the landmass, wants to turn it inside out. In the inhale, a desire to pull in the rocks morphing can shift into another medium, to become air.
The shards on the outside sitting on the threshold are dark, convoluted, weighty. The shard has flattened into itself, so it goes from 3D to 2D. The history and information are mashed as if in a trash compactor. The compressing is like a scream, anguish at being ignored, unseen, and trampled.
There is a lightening of material on the other side of the threshold, freedom from heaviness sensed as an exhale. The information strands compressed in the dark shards are free to elongate, to unfurl into lines of conversation that will have their direction. The conversation lines have varied movements, speedier and then slower, and they carry gentle energy. Time is not an issue here. It is like a party, a mingling of strands.
There are fragments piled together here, like from another time, a gothic fragment, a saltlike imprint from the past, that are being reconfigured here into a new hyper object, a new place. One could spend ages here, exploring.