Here in the stationary solidity of my room, which I haven’t left for the longest time. I write without being able to write, and I write for this. At any rate, I wouldn’t know what to do with this body that has been unable to move ever since it came into the world. Because I was born old, in a wheelchair, with wizened legs, withered arms. I was born with the smell of damp earth, the stale gust of ancient times at my back. I am speaking of a weight that bears down on me, a weight that gives me stiff shoulders and a crooked neck, that holds my head in the same position for days on end, sometimes a month or two. A weight that isn’t entirely mine, since I was born with it, as if every time I say ‘me’ I am actually saying ‘us’. I always speak in the company of this age-old air that has accompanied me from the outset. It paralyses me. A kind of burden. Weighty. More than that: it is brutal, cement-like, capable of arresting all movement, binding one joint to another, fusing my body’s empty spaces.
What do You think about The House In Smyrna (2015)?
