The house is a mystery. Despite observed stasis there is always ceaseless motion and change. For the most part it is slow and invisible, but nonetheless there is rarely sheer being and almost always states of becoming. Even sleep opens us to inner phantoms, and the house, despite exterior grandeur, invites intimacy and unfolding. While it shelters daydreaming and protects the dreamer perhaps the house too dreams — and if willing we remain, at the centre, in the long silence of its motionless shell, it will speak to us. One moment you’re sweeping floors, the next primacy appeals and you’re looking straight into a white fire on a previously pallid wall.
HOMEOSTASIS. 2013
Sonnet XVII ~ Pablo Neruda
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
14th Feb 201402:15
Opaque  by  andbamnan