Withdrawing into a hypogeal world, detached from the surrounding is an old habit. I learned the habit when I was young; humiliated into desiring non-existence, I would crawl on my forelimbs to a bereaving dark corner of the house. There occupying the sarcophagus, I would let out animal-like howls, unhearable to humans. That non-dimensional silent space was uprooted, as in the nature of ordinary human living, and with it, me. I have sought it ever since like an orphan child seeks its parents, disagreeing with the diktats of its condition.
Modern architecture is revealing, disrespectful to haunting spaces co-existing with it. In it, I cannot withdraw. There are glowing lamps hung like corpses, controlled to send alarming light, leaving no shadows, no withdrawal spaces. What draws the culture to this intolerance, I do not understand. It abhors invisibility, a human soul discontent with the plasticine reality and wanting to remain removed from it. So, artificial suns are launched on street corners turning the night into artifice.
Parts of my humanness are severed, deposited on the culture walls, prostituted to voyeurs who relish its flesh unbeknownst to me. To their eyes, they already know me while I pull closer the holy veil around me. Where I should preserve, nourished with rainwater and mud, I am rendered impotent in their dog-like viciousness and under their night suns. My precious silent space is no more; there, fill broken bones and bonces.
I fight however I can. I climb up poles and break the artificial suns to their atoms, sweeping them into crevices thwarting their resurrection. Against the voyeurs I stand refusing to speak; I am there but not. I continue my search, when they leave aghast, hateful, until again. I howl, unheard to humans, anticipating when the howl bounces off and is returned to me. There, there I will spread out, rooting into the earth and sit forever.