Art by Mariana Crottollini (Argentina)
My house.
I had never seen her like this.
by Guillermo Cides
My house.
I had never seen her like this.
It has become something valuable. Its corners, its stairs. The kitchen, the patio. Unique hiding places that belong to me and that make me free. Corners that take care of me under a protective roof, the rain outside, and I inside escaped, saved. This house, which was just one more, is now the only one. The one that saves me from the world, the one of loud music and the one of silence at night.
Who would tell you that there are walls that have the gift of taking care of you, of letting you do it, of creating a party. To listen to your song. There are spaces that are historical, that are filled with their own sounds, and that, without knowing it, take over your memories.
This house of mine is now my oven, my sheet, my smell of freshly baked bread. My Bill Evans with a red wine, my radio, my mates, my calm. My thinkings.
Houses are like silences in music; they are always full of something that you do not understand, a need that is only appreciated at the end when the melody is complete, and only then do we realize that everything has revolved in its belly, in its rooms full of memories, full of things with meaning, and of sounds trapped in the walls hidden without being shown.
And when the sun goes down, the sounds, memories, and words disappear.
And only the house and I remain, in silence.
The most wonderful silence in the world.
G.C.
