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 An Invititation

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Truth is not the same as vulnerability.

The moment you look,
you begin creating.

You may have imagined a person
while moving through the rooms.

That person may resemble me.

They may not.

I do this too.

I look.
I connect things.
I decide what they mean.

Sometimes I recognize something real.

Sometimes I recognize
only what I already know.

You may hear confession
because I have given you intimate material.

But I am not confessing to you.

The rooms contain traces.

Selected traces.
Arranged traces.
Contradicting traces.

What you make from them
belongs partly to the work
and partly to you.

Hiding has a choreography too.

I can stand naked
and remain unseen.

Autobiography is not biography.

I cannot know what you felt
from the way your body reacted.

You cannot know what I felt
from what I chose to show you.

But we try.

Words are easy to give away.

They create a wall
and leave an image to build from.

They allow me to hide
the sound of my heart beating
while I listen to yours.

You build from the image.

I will build from the sound.

Neither will be complete.

Still, we will both leave
with something to carry home.

You are not trespassing.

I invited you.

Give me a name,
if you need one.

I was raised in noise.

I am fluent in it.

If you want to know me,

find me

when I am quiet.




Ah.

There it is.

Which one did you choose?