Dislocation
I really don’t know what these windows are doing here. They must have had a purpose when they were built, but it is as if the memory of their presence had been lost at some point in the hustle of days, months and years. They are like stuck over a still, silence landscape, almost fading away under the scorn of everyday life and the dust amassed on their shivering, rectangular pupils. They don’t express anything. They remain just there, staring at the back of dreams and anxieties striving on a dark and fathomless screen, where thousands of other windows are opened and closed with a terrifying and unquenchable voracity.
The light casted around doesn’t seem to come from them; neither the air supplied by their shutters, barely opened through exhausting days of apathy and procrastination. Not even the outside sounds, filtered from the mere distance of houses and tortuous passageways, are enough to restore the demiurgic substance that should have been granted to them; they just pass through them as getting across a gaunt and harmless ghost diluting into the oblivion.
Very rarely, when the wind pushes clouds of dust or mist through the seasons, the rotten carcass of their shapes is shaken with a rowdy and unremitting tremor that betray the opacity of their existence, rendering them some traces of kind of a presence; though not enough for retrieving the primal sense with which are raised upon the void that they encircle now.
The glance that should have been attracted to them –as a tormented outpour seeking a distant, quiet landscape or some deep, open skies–, stayed stagnant in a myopia so intense that it can’t even tell the figure of their frame. Just in the moment when the light starts to vanish and the shadows of the world grow, withdrawing itself under the dark weight of the drapery falling over them, then takes shape the last figure of such a deep absence that not even the darkest night can outshine anymore.
