About this work / story layer
The story inside Boundless
I turned away from you and toward a wall of rough stone, barefoot on dusty ground, holding a worn wooden window above my head. Behind it the real sky is grey and turning, the kind of weather that presses on a whole day. Yet through the panes I have lifted, the sky is open and blue, and the dress on my body is made of those same clouds. I am not waiting for the storm to pass. I am framing my own piece of clear air and carrying it with me. Gaston Bachelard wrote about intimate immensity, how an inner openness can hold a sky far larger than any room. Wherever your weather is heavy, you are allowed to lift one window and keep it.