My house is not a normal house. It is a house full of ghosts and fantasies, or fantasies of ghosts, which in the end is the same. It is a house where my air lives and a few drops of my dead blood, from what I have given to blood I have stolen even without permission given. It is a house of laments, tears, and cries. Some are my mother’s, some others belong to no one, and some others, in which the sound is reborn, have come to be mine… or very much mine, ending without clarifiers.
In this house, my only house, my beginning and end I hope, so many feelings are kept, my morals and baseness in the mirrors and in every stain a memory, a lost longing. That is how my house is, not like any ordinary one where no one remembers each time they walk through its starlit halls.
That is how it is, clearer than a tear of yours, more lost and found than any kind of help, that is how my house is. One day a place where I sink, another where I protect myself, another where I am glad to be part of every breath of hers, all of her, from her staircase with a Jesus in front, from her wood howling at night like cries and howls of lost beings like my mother’s tears. Those tears she has silenced so much, and forever has kept alone among the walls of every corner of this house.
By day the house whispers into every ear of us, its inhabitants, its intruders or guests — a matter of focus. That is my house, the one that holds even the air, where it never runs as if it were drowning, while my window and my mother’s, while my door and my mother’s are not shattered with such cries of union that her own wood, that the neighbors of always, that the barking dog and even the ghosts themselves do not beg, do not applaud, do not laugh in every molecule, in every particle of air that floods our souls. In this house the wind does not argue; we do not understand it; in this everyday house, here the wind does not nourish, even more than food.
This house knows more about me than I do myself; this house is so intrusive that even when I think… it listens; it is so denied and resentful that when my mother and I argue… the lights go out!, a bulb burns out!, a cry is heard!, the phone rings!, whatever it takes, a thousand things at once so that its soul, according to her, will not be angry.
This house has seen me naked of soul and with a new body; here I have lost things. Even when this is not the place, there is always something between me and this house and she goes last out of habit out of grief but with silent blood.
here my soul played, here my soul remains
here only here, in my house, the only one
…my house…