Suzan Pektas's statement
Can, if he ever could, a headless white horse dream?
What, if he ever could, a headless white horse dream of?
My grandpa’s answer was short and clear: He Dreams of The Black Sea.
Born in a Bulgarian city near the Black Sea, granddaughter of an old crippled actor who was trapped between his delusions and dreams, I still bear the memories of dozens of mesmerizing stories he used to tell us while the family was spending the summer in a small hut on the beach.
The Black Sea, with its dark shady and strong waves, brings back the same spiritual heaviness that I vaguely remember of the reoccuring picture of a beheaded white horse, in those stories. A sea that inherently bears her name. When I returned to my birth-land after 25 years, she, with all his stories lingering around, evoked all those memories interrupting my thoughts and daydreams. I searched for traces of his characters and the places all along her coast. And, I reconnected with my grandfather, creating a narrative.
One sees a dream within the moment of a blink of an eye, they say.
I close my eyes.
I open my eyes.
Yes a horse dreams. And his dreams wake me up and blend me in colors. So bright, so light.