When there is nothing else left, to write is to survive.
From a house that stands abandoned and is relived by strangers,
Where histories entered and remained, where people, dead and alive,
Have left their imprint, to objects touched and never forgotten by impregnating
Hands, the longing roaming through our hearts and minds and locking themselves
In a material that may forever outlive the truth that nobody wants to die.
We look at old photographs and reanimate the scene.
We never let go of things that perished in the past, we
Give them a time-machine to follow us around because we
Are hoarders defined by what we used to own and what we think
Loved us back through its stillness and ability to absorb all of our
Wishes and desires without filtering them, rejecting them, our beloved objects.
Detail of “Portrait of a Lady” by Rogier van der Weyden (1399/1400 – 1464)