14 Jan

I remember every place I´ve ever lived in like I remember ex-lovers. Every house, every apartment, every student room had its particular soul, which was expressed through the distances between the walls and ceilings, the colours of those walls, and how much light the windows let in or kept out. The intimacy of our relationships has been saved in the memory of my senses: my bare feet on the old wooden floorboards or warm cork tiles. The back-pressure the doorknobs would give when pushing them down. How every space would give my voice a different resonance.

Every first night in a new place would be like touching a strange body in the dark: unfamiliar with new proportions and sounds I would stumble when getting up, listen attentively and slightly worried, catch the first hints of the neighbours´ routine and a streetlife that would gradually unfold itself during the next few weeks until I had it charted in my mind.

Then I would live inside that house for a while, protected or not so protected, but almost always in love, because every place I´ve lived in had something to love. A terrace, old pink bathroom tiles, a strip of Indian wallpaper, a seascape, room for a cat. And I would stay there until my dreams had grown too big or the love for a human being would pull me away.

picture house






3 Responses to “Ex-house”

  1. myriam January 15, 2015 at 16:10 #

    Je stukjes worden zoveel korter dan vroeger?! Ik blijf altijd een beetje op mijn honger zitten…
    Is daar een reden voor? Want ze zijn wel heel…schilderachtig…

  2. Kathleen January 15, 2015 at 20:51 #

    Dank u 🙂
    Op deze blog schrijf ik gewoon kortere stukjes, niet echt verhalen, vandaar.
    Een beetje poëtisch, dat is de bedoeling.


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