I am meditating and trying to perceive the space around me. When evoking the corridor and the staircase at the entrance, another place appears in my mind, a corridor similar to the bridge of the deck of a ship, with its railing and stairs in the center. That place attracts me and terrifies me, it is mysterious. I am terrified of not being able to bring to mind the corridor of my house, as if it were lost inside my head, and at the same time, the place that arises in it interests me: I do not recognize it but it is interesting, beautiful and bright like an art poster -deco.
Where do the places that appear in dreams come from? Houses that one goes through, buildings, long corridors that are impossible to cross or go to the end, streets that lead to unknown places. The mind interprets space and creates detailed territories, alien and at the same time its own. I was here at home, says one, but it was not my home, as if that information had been dictated by a fantasy screenwriter, the screenwriter who writes dreams and that we act without explanation. The scriptwriter snuck into my meditation and decided that the hallway of my house was another; the truth, I would like to know that place.
I recall in my mind the corridor that leads to our apartment, the stairs, the small railing, the plants in the planter, the doors that lead to neighboring apartments. One afternoon he might open the door and head out into the jungle, to a mall, or into space, like Agent Cooper at the end of the Twin Peaks series of David lynch. You could step out into an Escher painting and lose your bearings. In reality, the corridors are not a place, that is, they do not belong to anyone, no one inhabits them except the clueless who lost their keys. Neighbors, messengers, visitors and janitors pass through them, so life in the corridor is brief, instantaneous, and when someone settles in a corridor, things go wrong. As in the corridors of hospitals, for example, if patients exceed the quota and it is necessary to lay them there, on the floor or wherever possible. Or when the homeless take shelter overnight in hallways.
The president appears on television walking down a very long corridor of the palace where he keeps his secrets: the camera seems to flee as he approaches, a little hesitant, and tells us that he is fine. A very long corridor, surrounded by flowerpots; With each step you take, the camera moves a little further away, just as if you were in a dream, a little lost, or in a David Lynch movie. We are in a film by David Lynch who, by the way, is a great practitioner of transcendental meditation. At the exit could be the outer space.