Louisa Raspé
Louisa Raspé is an author. Her working method moves between narrative practice, performative movement, and academic research.
Layered clouds
There is a cloud in my eye.
Some say it’s a disease.
There are injections
to stop this cloud from growing.
They say they dry the cloud.
And sometimes I see it rain.
That’s the way clouds dry.
They get empty, they turn from floating humidity
to dry air. Damp air.
Mine is there, but it’s camouflaging, adapting to the background.
It became a part of me, as it became a part of the world I see.
Yesterday I stepped out of the train station.
The sky was cold and blue, with a piece of the moon.
Two airplanes were crossing each other and parting just before the moon.
Or: the position I gave to the moon, by looking up.
Another cloud came, some say a more real one.
First the cloud darkened the moon, then slowly moved in between us.
A cloud, in front of my own cloud.
Layered clouds.
My cloud in my left eye makes the horizon uneven, almost slightly wavy.
Hides eyes and pieces of the world.
I make them visible again by moving my head,
by training my right eye to see, to balance the distortion.
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