L'Ouest Loin

My old-growth forests haunt me. I glide through them on skis, a mountain acrobat in search of balance. Without a horse, I find my footing elsewhere: a seesaw, a beam, a stepladder—all of them oversized. Away from home, everything grows, everything wavers. The air rushes in, and so does the vertigo. I climb, I breathe, I take off. And when fear strikes, words anchor me: I tell the story of where I come from. Between solitude and momentum, a narrative where the body seeks its place within vastness.