Insomnia

A vast, black canvas—deep, endless, consuming. Its surface is uneven, textured like a terrain shaped by invisible forces. This is not just any landscape; it is the geography of my mind during sleepless nights.

Scattered across this darkness, words and concepts hover like ghosts—fragments of stress, anxiety, and self-doubt that haunted me during the pandemic. The weight of living in Germany, the struggle of an Italian love, the battle of never feeling enough, of fighting through a language barrier, of German bureaucracy looming over me like an unforgiving shadow. The fear of not belonging, the uncertainty of the future, the silent pressure of proving myself.

In the middle of this storm, a small golden silhouette—me, lying down, trying to sleep. A fragile moment of stillness surrounded by chaos. The figure is made of reflective aluminum, catching light, mirroring those who look at it. It forces the viewer to ask themselves: What keeps me awake? What words, what fears, what responsibilities linger in my subconscious, refusing to let me rest?

The choice of materials—dark textures for depth, cold aluminum for reflection—invites confrontation. This is not just my struggle; it is universal. A battle fought behind closed eyelids, in the spaces between waking and dreaming.

For as long as I can remember, sleep has been an elusive privilege, slipping through my fingers like a language I can’t quite master. But maybe in naming these fears, in mapping out this subconscious terrain, I am finally reclaiming some control.