The indelible smile of complicity. The sleeping shirt that was left in the laundry basket. Who will use it now? The oblivion that takes away the good and the bad and resets the entire system to zero, like total anesthesia. That almost white image that will never reflect the color of the kisses given. The erased sensation of the tactile touch. There is that damned oblivion, which nails you in a present with a broken, fragmented past, without resilience. That memory that will remind us when, how, where and with whom we were happy and also when we stopped being happy.
Memory, that which saves us and condemns us, to oblivion and memory.
Inside my brain, the one who decides with what scraps of things we keep, who chooses even the perfume that we will always link, to that moment, to that image, to that other. That neighborhood that we will never visit again as new, that group that we will always know, takes us to that house. To which we will not return.
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