There is such a thing as an irregular rhythm syndrome, where the heartbeat is inconsistent; it races, slows down or flutters. There are times when the heart skips a beat, others when it frantically chases the following one to the point of breathlessness, swarming, oscillating. Somewhere between a hollowness and a fullness, the needle of our internal compass is marking out a route of truth and justice, away from the illusions of the ego and drawing us towards our instinctive selves, towards the human nature that dwells in the nature of this world and the world of nature that dwells within the human.
Mia makes this journey in reverse, from the outside moving inwards, in an ascending motion that brings the unconscious to the surface. With every step she takes, with every skipped or hastily recovered heartbeat, she seems to walk along footpaths inside a dream. And then, the mist dividing imagination and reality clears, becoming penetrable like butter meeting a blade, nullifying boundaries and distances, allowing the experience of the Whole and the One.
Mia. In Italian “mine”, belonging to me. Because when one belongs to her own, it is herself that she wants to return to