The carpet functions as a private and protective space. It is a surface associated with safety, rest, and ritual—a place to sleep, to pray, to withdraw. It is also a formative ground: where we grow, crawl, invent routes and worlds, stage conflicts, and construct narratives. It is warm, soft, familiar. A place where surrender is permitted.

However, this familiarity is deceptive.

These carpets also operate as traps. They become marshlands—dense, unstable terrains filled with obstacles that resist movement. Entering them requires effort; walking through them means sinking. The body is pulled downward, forced to move through resistance until it adapts, until it becomes indistinguishable from the terrain itself.

The marsh seduces before it consumes. It invites trust, rest, and vulnerability. Once defenses are lowered, it absorbs the subject entirely. The individual is no longer separate, but transformed into another microorganism within the system—necessary for its continuation.

My marshes are the landscapes of my dreams. They are environments that sustain infinite microorganisms, just as the mind sustains chronic obsessions and unresolved trauma. These spaces are not overtly hostile; they persist through familiarity and repetition. They survive by being inhabited.

Through this work, I explore softness as both refuge and risk, and intimacy as a condition that can nurture or entrap. The carpet becomes a metaphor for internal environments—mental, emotional, and bodily—where comfort and danger coexist, and where surrender can lead either to rest or to dissolution.