In the last few weeks, we have been experiencing isolation in our home. The day has an unfamiliar rhythm. Space and time, now, have a different meaning, they are like a limbo we had never ventured in.
Maybe, at times, we might have slightly touched this sort of suspension, or even got to know it, always restricted though to single episodes, geographically limited; nothing to do with the current situation which is global.
We know Space and Time, entities which run on the linear timeline of human history; they are in the cycle of the seasons, in the life that is born, dies and is born again. They can be perceived in a comprehensive vision, along the timeline were we can read the civilization of people, the history of the countries during the millennia.
Everything now flows endlessly and indefinite in the silence of the world, which has stopped, the suspended earth and the waiting for the raise of the noise, the good one, the one that tells the story of us being present to the narration of each one, amongst hugs, words, meetings, busyness.
We could take advantage of this historic moment as an opportunity for an attentive dialogue between us, the world and eternity, to transform the absence of the sound, perceived over our windows, in an idea of spatial silence, where our slow bodies could spin our words, taking the shape of narration.
… and in an almost prenatal progression -- a paradoxical oxymoron -- in which we can mend the dialogue with the whole universe, while rediscovering our own identity.
This wants to be the space where to file your voices, with a return in concentric circles. A room where the rainbow always arises again, as soon as we start listening with deep attention through the act of writing.