All windows are closed, no air. All the windows are closed and hidden by curtains, the air is not noticeable and maybe that’s why it doesn’t seem to get to me properly.
Dizzy from start to finish. So many things charged, kept, plants somehow discouraged. A hollow sound of a building that rises to the ground next to it, the sound of dry faucets and rusty water flowing through the walls, dampened by the neighbor’s voice through the pores of the door, through the micro-sections of the closed windows.
- Life doesn’t come in.
- I didn’t come to life.
- But I have to go.
- The equipment of the house follows.
- More boxes in boxes.
- The indisputable time to open and close the eyes.
- Black.
- White.
- Separate garbage and anything.
- That doesn’t fit in the corner of a messy room.
- Always and decorates me.
When I came in and wanted to pack immediately, I packed my bags, relieved, like I woke up in the middle of the night, in the middle of the puddle of colored balls bursting into thoughts like endless balls of wool, I who no longer took these knot hands, I woke up in the middle of them, inside me, I who am no longer , I came back, as if I needed to see what time has done alone, changed the landscapes, or as if I needed to come and see that hearts keep minged truths but do not change, they lock themselves up, I had to come and see with my own eyes to convince myself that I was right, that my intuition, my no, my departure was the only way out for at least one of those lives to get the air back.
And here I am, inside the house, but I don’t come in anymore. But here I am and so are the streets, and these have always let go of my chest. Here I am on my bike on a Sunday, rediscovering the trees that hugged me so much. , looking with surprise at the openings he had already felt but had lost the courage to remember.
Here I breathe the leaves, the flowers, the warm air of the bridge, the eyes of the whites, the open park that comforts me. Here I thank the green of the city, the silent language of the trunks, revering what was worth living for.
Here I learn not to touch the cleanliness of others, not to insist more on opening the windows with my mind closed, not to get used to the basement that I have left, no matter what I know just to appreciate the public parks, which is free, no matter how much I know how to extract life in death, as long as I know how to play to soften terribly serious and cornered people , as much as I can iron everything and everyone, here I remember that this is little. It’s not much for me.
That butterflies and leaders, no matter how many language courses they take, do not speak the same language, I am not here.