his labyrinth

to hell with borges and his labyrinths, this was a true labyrinth a room of art that required a different perspective, theory, in order to be able to understand each piece: one, descarte, another barthes, another freud, another... that was his basement gallery. his own place to find himself another, while observing and re-theorizing. each work would convert him into another thinker and throw him, with all his current knowledge, into his own past. there he made different decisions than he did the first time confronted with the situation (this time with less caution)

and then there was the room, the one room in the house that had not changed with the modern, minimalist renovation. there inside was an academic clutter: books, novels, magazines and publications, a globe, maps, a lamp, another armchair... there, his decisions were made with categorical and meticulously measured science. each past was a present to be remembered without remorse, and without change. isolated from the decision itself, and more aligned to the effort that later ensued.

he would button the top botton on his sport coat, run his hands through his measuredly disheveled hair, and step back through the door that looked to go back to the outside world, but that brought him to his modern moment, to the life he was living now between the four outer-walls that was built by his past and that held played as the battlefield to his current reality.

four walls and so many different worlds.