A hollow space – is that a room? A hollowing, a space that falls through you. How many rooms have I lived in? Many. No: one, just one. One room, endlessly falling.
I go from room to room. How to lose yourself in your own flat? How, over the wooden floorboards? The red blind’s almost pulled over the window. A strip of black. The night, outside. Darkness outside and the room falling. A box of light. A box of light, falling through time.
From room to room. Where are you going? What are you looking for? And what were you looking for then, all those other nights. How many nights have there been?
The monitor’s on. The screen glowing by the desklamp. There’s the work to be done, isn’t there? There’s something to get on with. But you’ve long since fallen from work. You’ve long been lost from what you should be doing.
How many years? They spread above me like an arch. One year, another – and all the same year. Hollowed out. Voided. And opened a room in the room, turning it upwards. A box upturned – to what? To the same night I see below the red blind.
Have I failed? Have I missed some clue? Am I lost in an eddy? Time lost itself here. A room got lost in itself. I wander; the room wanders. Am I a way a room is looking for itself? A way space has come alive and got lost in space?
Lars Iyer's Blog 