Between the harshness of internal alienation and the life enveloped by the trap of safety, the houses take their psychological spot in the memorial unconsciousness.
So home becomes in our lives, a hypocritical possession of roots, of a place that even when leaving it, embodies a refuge, a smuggler, for necessary restoration at the moments of a deep feeling of alienation, evokes intimate sensory connotations that furnish the brightest rooms in the memory colonies.
But, houses, at the same time,
represent the harshest manifestation of an ancient hidden legacy of fear,
a fear, by the size of the cement blocks that spread as permanent blisters on the skin of the damaged planet, always ready to explode and toss all those inside it, into the vacuum, just by a small pinch pin that stitched lightly, by fingers of war or the snarling of nature.
a fear that, perhaps, was since the beginning the owner of the idea, its architect, its construction, and its first resident, homes.
ِِA fear, of being naked in a confrontation of this frightening breadth of things and beings, to be invariably vulnerable to the shock of the horizon, to the woefulness of the rising, to a permanent miracle called a sky.
A fear to be a beacon,
that does not stop distracting its loneliness, by the dull luminous turnover in search of nothing.
To live the rest of the long life, after the ending of the first nine months, without a womb.
Small houses that are scattered with a wonderful random, as a dream seeds, on the outskirts of big cities:
a full season of fever,
the mixing of “hay” and mud with the frightening smells of the material’s primitive formations, that becomes fragrant at the moment of rain,
Raw love in the remnants of the makers’ fingers, combing the braids of their walls with nails.
The confusing sense of the surrounding voices, playing an eternal night on a wind that knows where the reed moans,
Lanterns, that utter the light yellowing: are small embryos of the sun, grow in that worrisome room of space’s pores.
the tap dancing of Chestnut, on a tinplate of the fireplaces.
a tribe of course hands making circles of love,
above the Fire Festival
Sparking a tease of stars with lives of moments,
burn the eyes as quick faces before fading into their water.
some of them, homes,
rogue neutral as a stray shot,
no heart, no matter how wide its pulse, can fill them,
as if from the beginning, they were made,
to be a freezer of grey metal
do not accumulate in you, except ruminating their cold air, through your consciousness’ holes.
the good ones,
are simple houses made of wood,
the smile, that they throw it from the heart, is seasonal as eclipse,
grows in your empty valleys, a forest of creatures, your most familiar images,
a short hug, when you tremble, choking between their hands, wraps you as a cocoon,
Shuts all your contacts with the universe,
a cosy blindness, that they release you out of, after pumping warmth in you,
new, towards the scourge of light.
Some of them, people,
are dens of red eyes,
afraid, with each bunch of their flesh, the sting of cold,
poisoned just enough to give you a long painful death, without a death.
Prisons sometimes become homes,
which possess you, with long-term contracts,
with a marvellous ability to contain you, as an ant inside a goblin hand,
with iron collisions with iron,
walls that stab, by stillness blade, the belly of your memories,
you bleed the excess grease from the flanks of details,
the fake padding inside the minutes’ pillows,
empty of what you call your life “before that”.
lying on the ground, goring every wall,
requesting for a loophole, even if small, to see the “there” through, without avail.
you bleed, exhaust, fatigue, calm, convinced,
trying to coexist,
put your heart with other hearts,
in a paper boat
sails through a stream of urine passing through all the cells,
a final journey towards the astonishment of the unknown.
You coexist, live,
love it, after a while, the place, like any other warm house
love it more, like all houses
unlike all houses,
a lonely, secret, yours
you make a mysterious relationship with it,
let it carry your details, memorize its cracks, its wrinkles, sorrow, tenderness, cruelty, its thousand of temperaments,
its forced motherhood as your childhoods,
the fangs’ remains of whom bitted its breasts before you, painfully or farewells,
and little by little, you belong it,
your own branch emerges on the tree of its family,
an heir to all who preceded you,
their memories, their millions of minutes, the most beloved ones, the ones they did not live,
and when it spits you out, you leave your legacy with a pain for those will come after you
such, like any house, like all other houses.