Packing Days // Tania de Rozario
The studio has been overturned. Paintings back furniture for support. Brushes and books discuss their future over minimal leg-room and empty cartons: Who will go where? When packing, we will wear rolls of tape like bangles. We will sing gypsy tunes.
What cannot be left behind?: Your clothes, your money, your ticket, your heart, a book to read while some mechanical monster eats you up and spits you out on foreign soil I've only seen in postcards. I should colour you in, next to windmills, smelling tulips in a place where the sun will always shine.
And when everything's anonymous behind cardboard boxes, filling room we will no longer share, the bed will expand to twice its size, our shoes will no longer kiss on their rack, our walls won't eavesdrop on arguments, apologies, laughter, sex, excuses and admissions of love. Quiet will prosper, growing pregnant with days packed one unspoken word after another.