When dark comes swirling down across my eyes and the sweet grip of slumber loosens my limbs, somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, I dream about my mountain. Once vibrant scenery of the jolly life of my summer pastures has turned into a haze of ever-fading taunting imagery I only stumble upon in the dreamland. I can never truly recreate what I see in my dreams, since time has decayed it, hence the pictures are merely the distorted reflection of the life I once lived as a child on our mountain with my grandparents (I look for them in places that still host Adjarian nomads in summer). When I was a child, I thought like a child: Nomads of Adjara would keep my mountain alive. When I became a man, I put away childish things – now I see life in the remaining summer valleys and can’t help but see death in the shadows of that very life. The dreams represent the past of what was while the pictures in the series simultaneously mirror the past and the future of what ought to be.
