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
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
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.
Can I rest now?