In the beginning of the world ? Seasons.
To brave the trials of invention, creation, harmony. Here is the origin of the world. Four seasons. One compass. One clock. This last one represents life. Its shadow represents death. Past, present, future, everything intertwines, everything is connected.
It is beautiful. It is fast. Sometimes vertiginous.
Constrasted seasons, unique seasons. Each of them possesses its moment, is a moment.
The world in-between, it is the sun which disrobes trees during the fall, it is a thunderstorm which blooms in the spring. It is a life at a brisk pace. It is time which is passing, which is seizing the moment.
The silence of a winter is unique, the cacophony of a summer as well, life is all of this. Mimesis of nature, of existence.
We navigate in this perpetual motion, and that is all humans need to escape.
Seasons take us away with them. They observe us, become human, disguise themselves.
Our subconscious allows itself a voyage. An abstract dream takes shape. The fabric of the child we used to be accompanies us. It is bewitching, it is warm.
In this moment, our imagination becomes one with the origin of the world. And it is here that we fully enter the den of the world, our world.