EXPLORING A SIM THAT CELEBRATES “ A LOVE OF (A MINIMALIST) LIFE
Fade in from the black- breathe in and slow yourself. Opening before you, a world; bleak, yet lovely. Desolate, yet full of feeling. Furillen is the depiction of a world beyond pixels, residing in the island of the real; up north, off the coast of Sweden. Rendered by pixels, yet hauntingly real.
Close your eyes and tilt your head upward. Do you feel that? Snowflakes the size of an infant’s fist floating down in a windless sky, or maybe they are the ashes of a recent love’s apocalypse. Sometimes it is difficult to tell the difference. For now, for the sake of our hearts, let us imagine they are baby-fist snowflakes. Open your eyes, your mouth. Catch one on your tongue. Let it sizzle-melt with the heat of your body. Swallow. This is our communion.
Look back to the skyline and to the world around you. The camper, the pier. The light is fading, the coppery peach that lives just past the edges of sunset. Beyond the nearby outbuildings stand the outcrop of abandoned and eroding walls. Walk up to the base. Take your time. After all, we are on a pilgrimage, and pilgrims are seldom in a hurry. Stand at the foot of these walls and allow yourself to feel small. Look up again. Regard the slowly-eroding stillness that inevitably comes after the fever of Spring, after the smoulder of Summer. Only echoes now- the sounds of Autumn like lost spirits, singing their song toward Winter.
It is okay if you feel lost and a little bit lonely. Listen to the loneliness inside of you. In this place, It will sing back to you. Listen. Closer. The mouths of that song are making sounds like words- a language that eludes the grasp of the ear. It hums deeper inside- a tuning fork vibrating inside us beyond the territory of words. We will understand it if we are slow and close our eyes and prepare for the kinds of winter that always must come for a season; a season of slumber, a season of silence, of goodbye.
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If you are anything like me, you may wonder after dwelling somewhere beautiful, how such a place came to be- whether it be by chance or by some artist’s hand, and where did this place come from, how was it made, and by whom? I imagine a profile name scrawled on the cornerstone of this wall. Serene Footman. I put my hand over this name, my palm against the stone wall- and there, a flicker of an image, a picture of a man, hair long and thick, a tangled beard rivalling the lost Odysseus.
And have you ever wanted to knock on God’s door, just to see who it was who answered? Hoping maybe she is like your lost grandmother, and that when she embraces you, she smells like lavender and cookies. Or if you peer through the keyhole you see a strong man’s arms, forging the rudiments of another abandoned world-the steam and heat and smell of labour. His hair long and thick, his tangled beard like that of the long-lost contender. And just before knocking, have you ever turned around and walked away without knowing why?
Perhaps when you visit this place, you will feel much differently than me. Perhaps your heart resides in another hemisphere- and life is just beginning to warm. Of course your heart is in a different place than mine! After all, it thumps in your own chest. We are pilgrims of these worlds. It is inevitable that we bring more along with us than just our digital selves. Perhaps that is the point. When a world is born, a conversation is begun, with outstretched arms. A world that sings, Here I am… come and see… walk along the shores of my body. Climb upon me, and for now, even if it be just for a season, let me be your home.
ADDITIONAL INFORMATION: (visit Serene Footman’s extensive yet minimalist website at https://furillen.org/)