Behind the walls

Derrière les murs |

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At the entrance to this place the atmosphere is foggy, worrisome and soft, like a dream. A deep valley leads me to a huddled village, which I had never heard of. However, it felt as though I had already been there... The sky doesn't exist, in its place, a huge wall of menacing rocks, which blend in with the thick fog. I can see the road, over there... But I can't understand where it leads. A long journey begins, in the middle of an icy, static landscape - like a search for signs of life, or of the here and now. But the houses and gardens are silent, and I feel like running away. However, I stay, as though transfixed by this heavy, unmoving atmosphere and out of some kind of inner necessity, which urges me to explore. There's noone here. Some buildings seem to look at me with glazed eyes, as if to entice me inside. So be it: I go. I let myself be swallowed up by these walls, heavy with a feeling of solitude. I look around. I thought I saw a door shut... No. However, I feel these spaces enveloping me, dragging me further and further away from familiar signs... Are my eyes playing tricks on me? I see shapes... But the only living soul here is myself... I'm becoming unsure of that though. Am I the last survivor of a forgotten site? Or is it myself, this ghostly figure that I seem to glimpse, haunting these walls, to which I feel myself increasingly becoming a prisoner...?