Bookmark in Empty House

Bookmark in Empty House


The Echo of the Walls


Impression on plaster


The gaze stumbled upon the square of the ellipsis, where the color maintained its old faith, protected by the sun that once caressed the frame; now the dust resembles ashes from diaries that burned without a flame, as the hand gropes the rough surface of the wall, seeking the warmth of a thwarted return. It is paradoxical how absence acquires geometric shapes, how silence is defined by the angles left behind by objects; a memory that does not fade, but deepens in the stillness of midday.


The white of waiting


These walls are no longer borders, they are unread pages waiting for the ink of loneliness to etch them, with the white seeming deafening, almost hostile to the decay that lurks in the corners. I look into the void and see the figures that inhabited the light, the whispers that were absorbed by the lime dust , the echo of the footsteps that ceased to claim their space; everything is here, imprisoned in the clarity of a moment that refuses to pass.


The geography of dust


On the windowsill, the dust has formed small continents of oblivion, maps of an everyday life that was wrecked mid-way inside its own house; the finger draws a line, a passage to the past, but all it retrieves is the sense of time that silently settles on matter. There is no longer any weight in words, only a thin layer of gray particles that testify that once here there was movement, there was breath, there was the right to make mistakes and to forgive.


Nail marks


Small wounds in the wall, holes that held the weight of entire worlds, now gape empty, testifying to the violence of disentanglement; each missing nail is a bond that has been untied, a promise withdrawn from the light to hide in some dark drawer of consciousness. I stand before them and contemplate the magnitude of the responsibility that memory carries, how we can inhabit holes, how existence rests on such fragile supports.


The dance of molecules


In the only light that enters through the grille, the dust particles dance a slow, almost ritualistic rhythm, reminding us that nothing is lost, it simply changes form and hovers between being and nothingness. It is the time when the house begins to tell its story without my intervention, when mature thought recognizes that ownership is an illusion and that we are simply guests in the shadows we create.


Echo from a locked door


The sound of the key turning in the lock sounds like a farewell in a language I forgot to speak, a metallic click that seals the inside from the outside, leaving the soul to wander the corridors of the interior architecture. Each room is also a stop, a confrontation with the image we left in the mirror before it became cloudy from the humidity of abandonment; the ethics of memory dictates that we do not pass by any corner, that we do not deny any shadow.


The trace of the back


On the wall behind the bed, the shadow of friction can still be seen, where the body leaned, seeking support during the nights of vigil; a stain that resembles a cloud, a proof that existence leaves marks even where it does not seek them. It is the most honest signature of man, the wear and tear caused by the need for contact, the slow erosion of the hard material by the soft skin of desire.