Love, that unique feeling we name everything after these days, that will fade when it touches the material things, belongings, but always attributed to them, increases the amount of purchase when named, in the quest of hearts that will embrace it.
What kind of love, passion can we speak of if we are afraid of having a “spiritual bleeding” as in Heinrich Böll’s “The Clown” Maybe we give others that dagger to others, if I feel that I have a heart is not it worth that pain, if I want to feel that I am a human being all the time, if I reject ordered love? If I want to throw away fear of the future that I don’t even know whether it will be? If I am ready to welcome the loneliness they will bring, if I prefer embracing my loneliness to suffocating hell of habits?
A room, home where all the disturbing things, subconscious nightmares that hurt our feelings of safety are out of the door, our dream life breath. A feeling of warmth overflows from the word “home”, flowers with its warm breath in the hearts of most. As children like playing under the tables, our home is the place where we put life play on stage taking refuge in its embrace by retreating into ourselves.