This new house
Having experienced true joy and after pledging my heart, I return to an empty house. I know there used to be furniture here, I know there was a piano, that I had curtains, but they’re all gone. I walk at first tentatively, expecting tripping, but there are only wood floors, walls, a ceiling. I walk underneath the furniture, into corners, fissures; places only dust is familiar with. The walls are clean, shining light: the room is full. I am in a new house. In my old house I returned to everything just as I’d left it: that indented pillow that dreamy pyramid sheet, that ornamental mood. Now, the more I return the more I leave behind. Nothing repeats itself in this house: there is only that light, walking across the floor. I am a stranger every time I go home; I don’t recognize the things I took pleasure, but the memories of objects come. I reach for them out of habit, but they disappear like powder. The straps of bags become the arms of chairs, the handles of doors. What perplexes me more than this empty house are these apparitions. A cup no longer symbolizes my thirst. My desire is for limitless worlds. Everything I bring home gets lost in the happiness. The clothes I buy disintegrate in this climate. When I rest I’m in agony and don’t recognize anything. I need to pray, to say: please tell me what I can bring into this house that stays.