What I like about other people’s apartments is that the way
objects are arranged in space is given, I can only
watch them be.
In my own apartment what makes me nervous is the opposite —
nothing is definitive.
As in life. Fragile, vulnerable the way things are today.
I could, theoretically, move anything
at any time. My things, clothes, wardrobes and tables
are suffused with the provisional nature of my existence
here on earth, with my uncertainty, my mortality.
I uncritically accept all aquariums belonging to other people
(as long as there is no plastic castle inside) only my own aquarium I cannot come to terms with, it appears dark, its dirt falls on my head
I witness dying fish that I then have to throw into the toilet
the flowers in it have to be endlessly moved around replaced with new ones because they turn yellow.
Yet, I keep it alive for years, buy new fish, keep them warm, clean the sand and stones unable to stop. Of course, until it cracks and the water pours out I will never voluntarily abolish my aquarium.