A muted scream

Here I am, where I have always been, in this space that does not belong to me. Or at least, not entirely. I need these moments when I no longer have to exist for the other; when I peel off the makeup of the daily theatre and carefully remove the mask from my body. I face myself without disguise and trace the memories etched in the skin, those that live only in the body and can be unleashed by a single touch. Perhaps I should not touch them, nor even think of them. They open watery spaces that leave me adrift. I avoid speaking of them and shield myself in a shell of silence you do not know. In those moments, my gaze drifts in search of a light that might swallow me whole and spit me out somewhere else, where the muted scream I carry might escape, coarse, through the pores. Yes, there is a scream locked deep inside, a scream of desire. A scream that hides in the crystalline setting, in the perfect arrangement of the room. As if the clarity of the house, the precise focus of my gaze upon the house, could somehow compensate for the disorder that inhabits me. For the pain that pulses incessantly beneath the skin and could be revealed through scanning. I fear that more watchful eyes might notice the slight tremor in the fingers that support my face. Or the involuntary twitch of my eye, the left one. Or the restless shifting of objects, a mechanical act from which I am absent. But you are not attentive. You do not notice the smallnesses that compose my inner landscapes, landscapes that only dare emerge when the world quiets around me and the objects come alive. When I become just another object in our home, perfectly ordered. I, perfectly aligned with the rest. I, perfectly, an object. I could remain like this for hours, motionless, breathing imperceptibly, in the soft undulation of matter. It would be enough not to disturb the peace that invades me. A peace that smells of stagnation, a kind of death that hides in the folds of your gesture. You are sleeping, or perhaps you are simply absent, it is all the same. This time is mine alone, and immersed in this atmosphere, I let the latent desire pour out. I feel it spreading slowly through my body, with a life of its own, seeking out the lesser-frequented corners. It arouses me. It satiates me. I exist in this interval of silence. A silence brimming with life, even if fleeting. I exist in the suspension of light that draws me in. I exist in the seduction that imagination provokes, in the glimmer of reinventing myself. And I tremble. I fear. I still do not know how. The shadows thicken and the light pulls away. Dawn is rising. I return to opacity. Only the consciousness of the skin endures.