Nature, here since time immemorial—yet not without change. Human creations that altered the landscape forever, though they only served their purpose for a few years. I feel at home, because I am. I see beauty in that connection, because it is there.
This synthesis of nature and human intervention in it—I find myself unable to approach it critically.
Buchlov, Vtáčnik, and the Nováky chimneys. Equal parts of the horizon from which, meanwhile, the Cigeľ Mine has vanished—just as callously as it once appeared. And with it, a piece of us. Organic matter, shaped by external interventions, parted, interlinked, bent—and at the same time, seeking its own path, its own partings, connections, and bends. A new whole emerges, one that by its very nature can be neither good nor bad. A matter of perspective. A matter of habit.
Sometimes I don't know when I am still writing about the landscape, and when I have already begun writing about myself.
