And yet, if one looks more closely, this opposition… or… at the very least… this difference… between mirror and memory begins to crack.
For the mirror, however pure it may seem, never gives “what is” in a raw sense. It gives an image, that is to say, already a transformation… an inversion whose framing depends on a point of view. What we see in the mirror is not ourselves, but a figure of ourselves… and it is never too late to look at it with attention…
To say something is always, in a certain way, to lose a part of it—and perhaps, in that very loss, to let appear what is truly at work.
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The wind moves through it without hindrance, raising clouds of volcanic dust, fine and white like talc. It seeps into the smallest crevice, spreads like snow erasing every trace and settles in our brain… It shapes the black and grey dunes. Vegetation is scarce there, but not entirely absent…
