One gets the house in boxes, books, clothing, records, tedious and stressful, it seems strange to leave the place where you've lived a long time and let them deal with another (the city , in his pride architectural concrete and metal, is indifferent to who lives there, the buildings prostitute their internal spaces to the highest bidder to hang their posters, place your bed, your furniture and absurd life, never forgetting who the occupied before), but the strangest thing is those objects that do not fit in any of the above tags and who are orphaned, lost, among the boxes and sealed. A skull carved in lava of Vesuvius I brought a stroller in the Philippines gave me a sketch of a poem written on a napkin in the year 2007 (oh, how literary!), Leopard belt I do not get, patches that would, one day, and far, to sew on my sucks, I entertained the Rio summers on the beach in Los Canos de Meca. What to do with these remnants of the past who are bent on joining? They are not ours but ours because one is no longer the same as it was then. You say, bah, I'll take, then says no, no, better drop, threw them into the garbage, I do not know, each time you move one goes rid of memories, whose only use useless junk in the end, is disturbing on the shelves and take dust, which have no established place. In the end, one is not just your body and your mind and your fears, but also are part of an object that has the ends of the bell curve that we all are and that sometimes cut costs. We cling to as he clings to one of its members. Distress.
the end I pulled a few things. I have put in large garbage bags (I guess, suddenly, my things had become garbage), I've left on the street next to the recycling bins in the middle of the night. When I returned from Opencor've seen my stuff, some of my old clothes, lying on the floor, someone was interested, had opened the bags, had peeked and had left everything scattered on the sidewalk. It was strange to see my stuff there in the street, because things are always others, some of which I try to imagine life as a result of their garbage. This time it was my stuff and tried to imagine my life inspire me in those clothes and came out a different life that was not mine. Of course, I was much offended who judged not searched any of my old belongings deepest interest.
Moving, then, is not just a change of room or home is a more profound change as a journey, a return not just a move in the same way as one does not return from war. Moving at last, after all, is a small war, the kind that occur in the Third World and no one hears, to his own memory and its tendency to be preserved somehow. And life is made of pottery that, ultimately, is what remains when you die.
0 comments:
Post a Comment