“It was a small apartment that was turned into a lonesome boat, a box protected and blended by demolition wood.
A circle of light hit the staircase, piercing a window located too high for one to see more than a path of different skies projected on each step.
I used to sleep in a very small room cramped to the top with wooden shelves full of books, piles of drawings, and other memories of our journey. Not much space surrounded the objects. I imagine it was hard for them to breathe.
The centre of the boat was the living room due to the light, framed by a massive window making a very pure connection with an outside world. These six-glass plates, delineated by green metallic contours, worked as a big clock, which showed me, year after year, that the land was coming. Every time I looked at it, there was a small part of the ocean being materialised, like icebergs trying to hit my ship.
After fourteen years this day arrived. An army of frozen rocks lit the dark ocean and kicked through the glass of my big window with its reflections. On that day I had to leave. The exit door was crossed in a different way. By that time I felt I was leaving something behind, something I would never experience again.
My ship was gone, drowned in an ocean lit by the ice of the future.
Three years after the boat capsized, I went back there to revive an unfinished past.
My big window had no light coming through, except the one reflected by the icebergs that made us leave. Those which remained frozen right before the hit, leaving a five-metre gap, occupied by compressed depressed air and a few drunken birds.
There was no contact with an outside world; the boathouse was surrounded by huge ice forms reflecting our own image, the image of a dear past, isolating us from any kind of aspirations. But what is the past if one cannot have a future? Then it becomes the present, and will remain like that forever.
With the absence of objects the space became heavier, and it seemed like the materials had found the right environment for deterioration.
Rottenness started to pop out from the now paled wood plates of the wall; the breath of emptiness swallowed their veins, like a stroke in an old junkie’s heart.
I couldn’t sleep that night; my wakeful dreams were illustrated by sadness and disappointment. The next morning, I crossed the exit door, but this time leaving nothing behind, just bringing in my backpack, despair, and regret.
Burying things always makes us cherish them more. To dig them out could be a really dangerous move.”