OFLUXO

I am Not Your Territory, We Are My Only Character

I discovered many leaky sources in my ceiling. They told me that my crust wasn’t impervious enough. Borders have been a question, especially when seeing myself on a squarish black glass reflection. Even if everyone says squares don’t exist as perfect rectilinear shape, why isn’t my own perception enough? I might be a container, a shelter, probably not only for myself but for others too. Or did the others make me feel that? Am I a singular roof disconnecting regularly from the urban tissue? Probably a bit of everything asynchronously. I prefer to follow the bean lines and believe in their symbolical value. The more I want to impulsively feel my skin as a rampart, the more I discover windows, loaded with childish bubbly landscapes shadowing my feet. The other way around works too. Taking my skin as an open gate pushes me at some point to fence up the garden; but then, I infiltrate under-scaled worlds on the edge of disappearance. I think what is important to realize is who can be affected by this. You? Them? Or only myself wearing a mask, frightening them in a huge ventilation evacuation shaft?

Do you see how much I desire you? Probably not, constructions are too thick between us. I feel you receive only what I would rather keep for myself or play out in nightmares. I would rather look at old-fashioned divinities belly dancing with modern high standards. If my entrance was your emergency exit, we would build better modular organization than any modern architectural utopia. Exchanging positions from time to time, we would become real organs rather than metaphorical translations. I would glow in the dark without fear of leading you to my chest. The debt of any gift would balance itself in net copper rods. Handle, handle, we were taught. Handle handle. What if I turn it with my weakest hand? Will you force it back on the other side? Or will we open the door together in an unconscious mirroring game?

This threshold is actually a part of a mutual corpse. The fact we see it standing is an illusion; rather, it would appear softly contorting itself to draw other escaping lines.
Who is paying for this modeled rigidity? My sexual attraction is like this rectangular pillar of mine. If we link all its sides as an imaginary embodied story line, the four surfaces will becomes one, shinning toward any direction, horizontally. If I need to think of why I have to offer you my love, we better just sew a new blanket as default currency, and see what transformations the bed takes on next. The vibrancy of obscure woven tales will regenerate my flesh only if we become inconsistent walls. The floor plan drawn as a blind date, ardent clockwork, mutual consumption.
Fear, fear as the first and last thing to exchange.