“The House in the Frame”


The House in the Frame


Novel, Author: Fatmir Terziu

Language: English


“The ego is not master in its own house.” (Sigmund Freud)


Prologue


Crowds of light bulbs are mutilated in the sheet metal that guards the blossoming cherry branch, exactly where the thorn bush stalks with the protrusion of the roof ridges. A small inseparable orchestral liquid and celestial in the disobedient glass spreads inches made tangle on the glass. The inner bag floats. Snow-white thighs, held for years and years away from the scorching sun over that space, crash over the wrinkled white. The tops absorb the collected lust of the other apricot. In the meantime, a disobedient anarchy ensues. It is all a pothouse where drinkers and drunk have no law. Lawlessness is killed. Shaken seems the one who kept the anxiety under these beams that hang as if tired and crushed on two bodies made pair with the possible emptiness of several years.

The further lessened. Burning spirits still hang on the walls. Burning occasionally blurs the smell of empty perfume over this outdated reason. In the single cracked mirror, it seems that the possible time of reversal has not yet passed. Nudity lingers on it. Such meat is fried, and the shout becomes one with the handrails that keep coming out in the open environment. Beyond them there is a rule that is filled with noises. The birds whisper among themselves and the branch of the sky flutters the wings of the butterflies seeking a kind of peace under the cherry. Near by the cherry, the time makes all pairs and together.

The past is read in a suitcase left in the clothes press. And while her mouth does not close, like open clothes press mouth, it automatically turns yellow a residual newspaper risk on a return route from Vienna. Remained during bewilderment… "Serbkliia" is barely read from where the sheets of sheets are flattered like postmodern, cuboidal paintings on the incomplete face of glass. Her time is not wasted. There remains a hole in all that straw of things. A yellowish hole, which mostly leans from the escapes…, the escapes from the times and worlds polluted by their own paths in conjecture and darkness.

Inadvertently make mysterious discoveries. As such, buddy with coincidences become one in that forced nudge of nudity that continues and continues to compete with the raindrops floating in the windows. But they are invisible. The windows still have spider webs and between them a layer of smoke, forced to be layered, does not allow the eyes to convey any inspiration from the external freedom of things in nature. There can be no sign in this long and tedious can get to where maybe time would make a little break. Break? Nor does the rain accept that kind of pact.

There are hours that the rain has remained under the direction of the sheet metal. Knowledge only follows what looks and feels. On the right of the earth, few can speak of the feeling of the earth. The obsolete prostration is thrown on the back of the musluk, during a thought of remaining three feet to me, to agree with the fear that inadvertently intends to remain fear. In that environment, fear has remained the key. From it can occur nudity and emptiness, escape and forgetfulness have caused all these reasons why drowned in mystery.

Crouched in a headscarf and white hiram on her head, she penetrates from the back door, the oldest and most respected of that whole tribe, Zëja, in search of what has pervaded that environment, that part of the ancient trunk, that famous house of known for strong brave men. Calm, with eyes from the sky, with a serum in her hand and with a full concentration, she addresses that ruby covered by the whiteness strewn with some delicate and colourful embroidery.

"It's wizardry," she said with a muffled whisper.

And then it began to erode with its thin rod into a corner of the temporary cracking in that thickest column that kept that old house standing. She did not speak more. Just half-crooked sighed. And again, the eyes from heaven. He saw the rain to make themselves hara-kiri on the sheet metal and in that case, she somehow added… “eh..., eh, eh… you sledgehammered, you scorpions spoiled by this land, this land, this earth. And when you had to run away. You disappeared. You left it barren. You dried it… now you are looking for roots, veins, trunk. Here are these raindrops, here is this yellowed silence. Here… like this magic that produced infertility. Infertility… extinction of life.

The house where I grew up has become levelled with Grandpa's eternal home. I barely perceive between my grandfather's house and living room. This makes it difficult. It fades, it makes up, it perverts. Both, the object, and the subject, have given up the shade of white berries, and those of the other two with larch, black and red colours. Both are tired of mass exodus. Both have been exacerbated by the abandonment of these sides, of the throes of years. Both are inflated, as well as by the spirits that walk only within their scallops. In there are probably eyes hanging somewhere at some point. Probably to the point where the last berries were swallowed by the endless summer birds.

Somewhere..., somewhere..., somewhere...

Only I feel somewhat different my former presence. I'm still a child. I'm still falling and getting up on those floors. Scratching soft eyes and nails on those walls. I am still a tiny shadow under those delicious mulberries.

Surprisingly, I am at home day and night. Being there, so I persevered and regained the direction through the corridor. I walked through the kitchen, and now I'm banging on the floor.

There is no one!

There is no one! There is no one.

Wipe my eyes and I understand this phrase that means "Get away from my neighbourhoods!"

To leave? To go?

I who have the key to all these memories… should I leave?!

Surprising. Mysterious. Painful.

And I do the misunderstanding, the disobedient. He walked, so easily, with the utmost care for the noise. Do further. I try to take careful steps there from the big bucket of the house, what my great-grandfather had brought from afar carved and decorated for worry.

It is from the planks of the Kalamai River. It is made of wooden planks from Çamëria.

And stare somewhere. I thought my mother’s ornaments might be there, but I did not even understand what had been done with them.