Rooms. I seek out rooms where I can rest.

I have lived in rooms without windows or ceilings
Rooms burned by the night that won’t leave
Deaf rooms,
mute, with no echo
Shining rooms with brutal light
Nurturing, sheltering, warm rooms,
at the end of the day 

Luxuriant, splendid, shimmering rooms

Rooms as red as blood, as warm as blood 

Airy, luminous, quiet rooms. Motionless.

Rooms so small you can’t even see into them with your eye 

Rooms you can only enter by holding your breath

Deformed, deforming rooms 

Rooms where you feel you have already been here

Rooms you recognize

Rooms you do not
Rooms of masochistic beauty

Rooms of perfectly aligned solitude 

Rooms inhabited by the Other

Rooms lost by some Other
Rooms that do not belong to you but that you wish to possess

Rooms of fleeting moment
Rooms observed, that spy on you, that haunt you

Rooms with deafening, familiar voices 

Rooms loved with overwhelming love

Unrequited rooms
Wounded, destroyed, broken rooms

Rooms that protect

Rooms muffled like sound under water

Rooms that reflect like a mirror in which you don’t want to see your own reflection 

Rooms so deep I mistook them for streets

Empty rooms, full rooms, crowded by Other than me 

sharp and rusty.

Rooms. Still rooms.

with a beginning and an end. 

with a definite form.

I left those rooms
with a mixture of relief and horror, pain and loss.

but each time I took note, 

each time I said to myself:

“This is it. This is my room. 

At last.

Can I rest now?

Not yet.”