I have always been interested in what lives underneath things. Underneath the work of an artist. Underneath a life. Underneath the stories we tell about ourselves.
Perhaps this is why I was drawn so early to the avant-garde.
There was something in those artists that felt unruly, searching, and unwilling to accept the world exactly as it had been given to them.
They seemed to be looking for a feeling, a question, a glimpse of the invisible finding its way into form. Whatever they were looking for, something in me seemed to recognize it.
And so I began listening to their lives through the language of the stars. Not looking for an answer, but listening for the particular voice of a life: the tenderness in it, the contradictions, the desires, the things that repeat, and the things that fall silent.
The more I listened, the more they began to speak, quietly guiding me towards their stories. Always with the same request: Unfold this slowly. Hold it tenderly. A little closer. A little deeper. There is something here I haven't shown you yet. Go further into what you hear.
And there I am, with literature and art, mysticism and psychology, and my intuition sitting right in the center. Suddenly, these separate languages begin to touch and trip over each other and tangle into a messy, beautiful hug. And when they do, something wonderful happens. Things that once seemed unrelated are no longer separate ideas.
One thought leans into the next, then another, until they seem to be speaking the same sweetness. A sweetness that is, at this very moment, leaking off this page and onto your fingertips. There is something almost romantic about watching these things find each other.
And when it does, I don't particularly want to rush anywhere. I could stay here, in this holy circle, for hours.
Because a circle like this is never just an abstract idea—it's a magnet. It has a heart and a messy kind of center. And somewhere within that center, dear reader, is you. Your attention has its own gravity here; it is part of what pulls this strange constellation together.
Yes, I use the culturological phenomenon of the Avant-Garde, occult history, and dead poets as a tuning fork. But I think of you as the true northern pull. You are the warmth that gives all of this a pulse—a living piece of poetry, timed by the watchmakers of the cosmos.
And so, to watch your soul—something written in the stars—find its way down into a childhood, a body, a family, a particular history, to see it meet love and loss, choice and circumstance, the world itself, and somehow, by some miracle, become this life... well, that is one of my favorite parts.
It makes me wish to know:
This is how a childhood memory wanders into a painting. A longing becomes a garden. A wound becomes a piece of music. A dream wakes up inside a film. Neptune finds an ocean on Solaris, and suddenly, everything that had been scattered begins to constellate.
Maybe the soul unfolds like this too—not by becoming something else, but by coming home slowly, softly, on baby tippy toes, to what has always been there.
Warmthness
Sanja
