Home Is Where My Tired Eyes Meet The Starry Sky
2014, acrylic and charcoal on paper
Do you still remember that abandoned house on Victoriei Avenue? Home Is Where My Tired Eyes Meet the Starry Night – the echo distorted the sound infinitely until when a mere howl was heard in the distance. No one talked on the street, even the cars had stopped and their reflection in the house’s window was bigger than reality. We watched ourselves in a mirror that made us seem grey, like some sad giants; our skin blazed faintly, intermittently, and formed new constellations with each breathe.
I remember, it was a night-house, a place without glory. It wasn’t by accident that in that day I thought how my weary eyes always seek that dry and dusty dark of abandoned chambers, in order to calm down and how, once closed, the back of the lids starts a dance of lights (a sort of bright little worms) left there from the day’s encounters. Then I was thinking that this is my feeling of home, of night-home, of night without roof, where the hustle and bustle of the jack-o’-lantern under the lids becomes as big as the Universe and hypnotizes me until I dissolve myself. I remember how we were standing in front of that huge window, sad giants indeed, a bunch of melancholics who deny themselves the luxury of staring at the stars and withdraw, at the end of the day, in a dark and lackluster chamber, where the aberrations of the optic nerve imitate constellations with names you’ll never know, at least until you fall asleep.
I remember, it was a night-house, a place without glory. It wasn’t by accident that in that day I thought how my weary eyes always seek that dry and dusty dark of abandoned chambers, in order to calm down and how, once closed, the back of the lids starts a dance of lights (a sort of bright little worms) left there from the day’s encounters. Then I was thinking that this is my feeling of home, of night-home, of night without roof, where the hustle and bustle of the jack-o’-lantern under the lids becomes as big as the Universe and hypnotizes me until I dissolve myself. I remember how we were standing in front of that huge window, sad giants indeed, a bunch of melancholics who deny themselves the luxury of staring at the stars and withdraw, at the end of the day, in a dark and lackluster chamber, where the aberrations of the optic nerve imitate constellations with names you’ll never know, at least until you fall asleep.