Seren Sarapcioglu

In a sky too still to be real, devotion becomes a suspended dream — weightless, radiant, and quietly fractured.

Behind us stand millions of existences; we are but one among them, carrying truths assumed to be certain.

Hands reach for a distance they can never touch. Life drifts between dream and reality, and the self moves quietly, asking:

Is existence ever truly ours?

When the world presses too close, the body folds inward, tracing a shape of retreat that memory alone cannot erase. Silent witnesses gather around — presences of a world that demands to be remembered, yet never truly known. Folded into the space between thought and breath, existence pauses, weightless and unresolved.

Here, in the narrow space between breath and disappearance, a quiet pulse continues to echo.

A solitary figure stands where the land falls away into the sea, suspended between presence and disappearance. The body faces the invisible currents of the wind, while the gaze dissolves into the endless grey of sky and water. This work traces the fragile boundary where selfhood begins to lose its edges, offering a moment of stillness in the vast negotiation between memory, body, and landscape.

Somewhere between breath and forgetting, the self drifts into the horizon.

Between earth and water, a presence stands still, marked by a line of distant light. The air folds into silence; space stretches without offering direction. A moment unfolds where form grows weightless, and the outlines of being blur into the endless drift of sea and sky.

Somewhere beyond measure, existence softens into distance.

As the surface of the self folds into the skin of the earth, the face loses its certainty, and memory drifts like mist.

Here, the body no longer stands against the world, but is rewritten by it — line by line, breath by breath.

In the tangle of green and silence, identity becomes a borrowed shape.

 Where does the body end and the forest begin?

If the trees breathe through us, are we ever apart from them? Is existence something we carry, or are we carried by it?
Are we shaping the world, or shaping by the world?

In this blurred boundary of skin and leaf, the self flickers, weightless — folding quietly into the dream of the earth.

Caught between stone and branch, a silent posture hovers at the threshold. Walls no longer contain, and trees no longer shelter; the surroundings press in without resolution. Here, the familiar fractures quietly, giving way to a space where form is neither claimed nor fully abandoned.

At the quiet seam between what holds and what releases, a breath lingers.