A blank page is silence and breathes stories of trees, of land, of nests that were birds.

 

A paper flutters and the moon sings a secret that will never be delivered.

Paper is a space, a material, a body that when touched by ink is transformed because memory is rooted in the concrete, in stories, in spaces, gestures, images and objects.

 

When we write a letter we are creating a mark because in it we capture a present that in the blink of an eye will be the past and with the passing of the years, memory.

How many letters written in secret, with a breathless confession, live in a trunk of classified forgetfulness, holding the weight of dust? If we open the door for them, where will they fly?

 

A sheet without apparent weight, which when joined to another is a roof, wall, windows, door, and thus, we suddenly see ourselves in a paper house. A geography of dreams and fragility. The house as a shelter, the paper as a throbbing body that awakens a memory, a dream, a joy, a scar and next to the hand, messenger of memory, draws words and voices that will be ceiling, wall, windows, door and footprint, in a paper house

 

There are days when we write letters without a destination, without an addressee, that fall asleep in a breath and die when we open our eyes.

A leaf and the reflection of the light that we are no longer.

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What to write in a letter that will never be delivered?

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Idea and Realization:

Ima Torres - Gabriel Hernandez