Experiencing something is only an illusion. The assumption of making a wall’s existence only a story is something you only tell yourself; a story about how you have experienced it through images. A house is not what you see in the photographs. You get to understand the structure once you pass it by in real life.
Have you noticed that this building breaths? Once you come closer to touch it, you start to realize that you’re there and this is it! You can send out your location to somebody but you can’t actually share what you are feeling and touching. No matter how many photos you have seen, it doesn’t change a thing. When you are there it feels as if you are sharing a moment with these things and these objects. I have relationships with buildings. I listen to what they have to say. I behave in certain ways which I know they’ll appreciate. A building is not art. Maybe it is architecture. It is a living creature; it is a newborn waiting to be carried and loved.
I have sat on these steps once. They were in a photo and I closed my eyes and tried to imagine touching the tiles and feeling the coolness and dumpiness which came out from the earth underneath. I sat there in confidence. I was confident enough about its pragmatism and aggression that I could stand still and not fall or sway from side to side. I stood on the edge of the terrain holding the rail knowing that I was only a dot in this universe. I felt sufficient. It felt sufficient. Explaining this moment would make my life a year shorter. This was a moment that took any sense of vulnerability out of me. I was ready to play a game of Culture and Life.
Not feeling threatened anymore, weakness and decadence became terms I no longer was taken by. I was celebrating the light of the day touching this stone. I have gained power form this occasional affair. I have fallen into the notion of love. I walked carelessly on this concrete with politeness as if the impulse to go beyond was required in order to be done with the day.