Edited by: Maggie Rosenau
The unnecessary rooms represent the loneliness, even if they are wide and colorful… Your room is just what surrounds you. Everything around it is a vacuum, it does not hurt you, but it does not contain you.
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The unnecessary people, also represent loneliness, even if they were kind and colorful. They are also a space surrounding you and don’t contain you. They could never be your small, rounded room.
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You are a warm room for someone–an extra space for another.
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We are–all of us–like cities, inhabited by others. Some are people, some houses, rivers, bridges, green trees, withered trees, paved roads, bumpy roads, gardens, then we become cities inhabit other cities, in which we will be a river, a bridge or a palace, etc.
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There are some of us like a boat, a small wooden boat between two islands, kind and warm most of the time. He has many memories and sweet stories but he is also sad most of the time. He knows that he is a boat, and whatever he tries, he will not become a house–perhaps only a colorful ship that will hold evenings for strangers who do not know the name of the ship that is carrying them.
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And some of us become a hotel, a big one everyone knows. Or a small descent near a road between two cities. You may find them temporarily warm, but in both cases, the visitors will leave their liquids, the remnants of their food, and they leave, keeping for you some tip.
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You think you are moving to your dream city. You travel, and then you discover that it was the same one you left earlier. Then you return, but some strangers move freely there and they do not know these are your streets, they don’t care either, and not even the city. Then you will become a stranger, in all cities.
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There is the one who leaves his home for a better job, seeking better food and better love. He travels, then he becomes lonely…. he returns, but, there are strangers living in his home. They are happy, dreaming of the best food and the best love. And like him, they will leave soon, but the house will never be the same.
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Some of us are like the sea others commit suicide in. People watch us. They throw the butts of their cigarettes in. They get naked in us, urinate in us, then write poetry and leave us alone as every night.
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There is always one home–a home that once warmed your bones, a home that hurt you so bad, a home you dreamed about but you never lived in, and a home you lived in but you will never come back to and see it again.
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There is something priceless: a tent. You carry it, hide in it. It is light. A cover and pillow. Sound of cockroaches and evening. Your tent is too wide to be afraid, also too close to be lonely in it, There is no doubt that there is a book around that you enjoy. Music also. The tents offer this to you usually.
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Sadness is a cold house, though more solid than happiness. It is a large house with solid cellars. The houses of happiness are fragile—they are like telephone booths you enter sometimes for an emergency call, to urinate, or for shelter from rain you do not like.
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The house does not leave, rather, it watches.
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