Excess

Excess


The Whisper of Confinement


Stagnation of time


The light hits the closed windows with difficulty, the dust dances alone in the room; every breath measured, every step calculated on the old floor. The day begins with a silence that weighs on the shoulders, an unspeakable anticipation for something that will never come; everything is in its place, arranged with a severity that suffocates the heart. I look out the half-closed shutter, the world continues to move while I remain still in a photograph that is slow to fade. My breath becomes smaller, almost invisible, so as not to disturb the harmony of fear.


Morning ritual


The cup clinks against the marble, an echo that reverberates throughout the house; his gaze lingers behind the newspaper, an invisible net that stretches out to enfold me. There is no room for error in the movement of the hands, the sugar falls with millimetre precision; the responsibility of perfection is my own bond. A word is enough to tear down the edifice of tranquility, a shadow is enough to remind me that here I am but a foreign visitor in my own space. Breakfast is a staged performance, where the roles are assigned and the words are time-tested.


The empty key


The key turns in the lock and the sound is the confirmation of return, the seal of absolute control; I am left staring at the metallic gleam, an object that holds my freedom hostage. There is no escape through these doors, the walls have ears and the shadows have eyes that never sleep. My body has learned to react, my pulse rises before the footsteps in the hall are even heard; submission is a language I have learned to speak fluently, even when my soul cries out for resistance. It is a daily affirmation of the dead end, an acceptance of the inevitable.


Shadows on the walls


The room is filled with disembodied shadows, dancing around the corners and whispering truths I fear to hear; every corner is a witness to my silence. The walls are soaked with fear, an old and stuffy smell that does not go away with any window opening. Loneliness here is not freedom, it is a prison with open doors, where the guard is the fear of punishment itself. Every night, the shadows grow and swallow my memories, leaving only the emptiness of now.


Arithmetic of patience


I count the hours until darkness brings oblivion, an arithmetic that has no end; my patience is a coin that I spend sparingly to buy a little more peace. Every second is a small victory against the explosion, every minute a conquest of patience. My heart is a clock that beats at a different rhythm from the others, a pulse that tries to hide under my clothes. Waiting is my only art, the only way to hold the fragments of my life together.


The illusion of order


Clothes folded in perfect symmetry, books lined up by size and color, an order that resembles a military parade; imposing form on chaos is the only way to keep my faith that I am not yet lost. Cleanliness is not a choice, it is a line of defense against the criticism that waits around the corner. Every speck of dust is an accusation, every forgotten object a cause for conflict. My life is a constant pilgrimage to the satisfaction of its control, a sacrifice on the altar of incessant observation.


The breath of weight


My chest tightens as the door closes behind me, a sound like a lock turning inside my own body; the weight of the atmosphere is material, you can touch it with your fingers. The words that were not said gather in my throat like stones, a collection of unspeakables that slowly and painfully suffocate me. There is no oxygen for truth in here, truth is a luxury I cannot afford. Only the suspicion of my own existence survives under the cover of daily habit.


The eyes of the mirror


I look in the mirror and I don't recognize the face that looks back at me, a gaze dulled by the daily decline of self-esteem; the eyes have lost their shine, they have become survival tools that only look at the ground. Age doesn't matter here, what matters is the decay of desire, the slow retreat of personality under the yoke. The mirror doesn't lie, it shows the silent collapse that is happening behind the smile I wear for others. I am a stranger to myself, a form waiting to be awakened.


Geography of pain


My body is a map marked by tension, muscle pains that recognize no doctor, a fatigue that does not go away with sleep; every contraction is the memory of a fight, every tremor the warning of the next. The psychosomatic language of pain is the only one that my self understands, the only way to tell the truth without opening my mouth. My silence is not acceptance, it is a cry trapped under my skin. It is the geography of my own prison.


The silence of the neighborhood


Behind the walls of the apartment building, life goes on, an orchestra playing while my house burns; the neighbors listen but choose to close their windows. Their indifference is a wall higher than the one they built for me, a web of complicity that holds me still. No one asks about the broken cups, no one wonders why the light goes out so early; their silence is an approval, a silent nod to the one who is holding the steering wheel. The neighborhood is a stage where everyone pretends not to see, and that is my heaviest burden.


The invisible net


I move through the house as if I were walking through a field full of traps, an invisible structure that defines my movements with surgical precision; there is no freedom in where I sit, how I speak. His shadow is everywhere, a presence that occupies the space even when he is absent. The web of surveillance is woven with thin threads of habits, with demands that have become rules, with a constant reminder of my own dependence. I am an insect learning to live within the web, hoping not to provoke the spider's anger.


The rite of forgiveness


I no longer know why I apologize, the word has become a reflexive movement to avoid tension, a sound repeated without content; it is the language I use to calm the offender. My apology is the gift I offer to buy the cessation of the storm, a sacrifice of dignity that has become a habit. Every time I pronounce it, a part of me dies, a crack opens in my identity. It is the most expensive price I pay to not hear the noise of the attack.


The emptiness in the gaze


I meet his gaze and I don't see a person, I see a mechanism set in motion to cancel me out; his gaze doesn't seek mine, it seeks conformity. There is a void where mercy should be, an abyss that terrifies me more than his actions. This void is the proof that I am not a companion, I am an object subject to his ownership. And when his gaze pierces me, I feel that I disappear, that I too become a shadow in the house.