Emily Dickinson

You cannot know what dimension was... In which edge of dimension Emily is living… Secret Garden, Limbo or Purgatory. Whatever existence it was, she was there… Without knowing of being in it. Without remembering how she arrived there. Independently of our will, we find ourselves in that illusion. Made of mist and veils and of distant echoes. Elements of a dream in which we wander, beyond the dawn. We are appearances and we are victim of a mirage at the same time. We cannot know what pitfalls, or deceptions… or what kind of hopes we can find hidden in this illusion… because is our unconscious that creates and gives shapes to the visions. And our innermost soul is influenced, in turn, by our experiences of the past. Today we are the shadows of our lost. Just puppets in this circle of passions and mutations that is life. And we fill and disguise this fog of our fears and desires. The world of Emily is a melancholy world, made of loneliness, made of endless empty spaces. Spaces that sometimes only the fog is able to fill. A transcendent and remote fog, rising from the depths of the soul, as metaphysical materialization of all our thoughts, fears, ghosts and losses. It is a timeless dimension, or better, an infinite dimensionless condition of suspension. A latent perception of absence, of conscious powerlessness towards a desire that cannot be satisfied.