they gutted the place while it was still alive; ripping it apart from the inside-out; windows sawn out, the gas channels demolished, water pipes severed, electric cables slashed; the immune, respitory, digestive and nervous systems of the house, completely corrupted - anything to make it unlivable. it's only current prupose? to be empty. of us. to rot and fester till further developments somewhere in the distant future.
but we still went there. to look around, to remember, to take back what we left behind, what was locked from us. to sleep in on the nights when no one offered us a bed and the freezing street was the only alternative. Nicolas and I stayed there some nights - with the wind blowing into our bed clothes - finding it difficult to leave. even though we weren't getting any decent sleep and the danger of being caught was always a nosy neighbour's phone call away.
for the first time i understood the families who stay in their homes as the bombs rain down, and the refugees who walk back into the warzone to take another look at the shell of what had been the venue of domestic life. for the first time in my life, i understood that home is where the heart is and that you only feel it when it's been taken away.
RIP B183
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