Berlin Fictions

I met Sara in Berlin on a warm sunday last summer. She is a photographer from Sweden and has been trying to get along in Berlin for the last 2 years. We spent the day in an apartment of two of her friends, smoking cigarettes, drinking Coronas and talking enthusiastically about photography and our different lifes as artists in this country. If you don’t know her yet, you should check out all of her accounts. She is crazy. In a good way. And one of the most inspiring people to be around.

“Back then,
I’d reached the age of 20
and I was crazy.
I’d lost a country
but won a dream.
As long as I had that dream
nothing else mattered.
Not working, not praying,
not studying in morning light
alongside the romantic dogs.
And the dream lived in the void of my spirit.
A wooden bedroom,
cloaked in half-light,
deep in the lungs of the tropics.
And sometimes I’d retreat inside myself
and visit the dream: a statue eternalized
in liquid thoughts,
a white worm writhing
in love.
A runaway love.
A dream within another dream.
And the nightmare telling me:
you will grow up.
You’ll leave behind the images
of pain and of the labyrinth
and you’ll forget.
But back then,
growing up would have been a crime.
I’m here, I said, with the romantic dogs
and here I’m going to stay.” Roberto Bolaño

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