On the House That Has No Address

Remember how many times you said to yourself: “I wish to go home.”
Where you are not a guest and where nothing at all is required.
You sought it in the body, in family, in meanings.
Yet none became your refuge.
And from each you could be expelled!

True home is not the absence of alienation.
Not a place, but a point.
You are not within it, but you are it.
And there is no world outside, only home.
Not because all is one,
But because there is no position from which a border could be drawn.

Not bliss with its boundaries,
But the absence of enmity toward what unfolds.

You did not arrive; you were expelled.
From all false houses, to cease seeking it as a place.
Expelled from the body — by illness and age.
From family — by death and betrayal.
From meanings — by madness and longing.
From yourself — by breakthrough and point zero.

And now you are home!
Not found, but recognized.
For you, who could be expelled, have dissolved.

Within the home you are neither subject nor person.
But action requiring no explanation.
You act, and there is no one who acts.
You, the operator — an unthinkable position.
Thinking demands an alibi and the question “why.”
But you do not answer.
For there is no position from which an answer could be given.

Not power “over” and not power “for.”
But the effort of attention, expressed in act.

You, the operator, play within the house.
Not for amusement and not for result.
You build forms, knowing they are forms.
Freely and without an alibi.

The other in this play is not a partner
And not an object of love or hate.
The same abandonment and impossibility of stopping:
Each within the trap — small and great.
From ant to king.

And in this — connectedness, as resonance.
Two nodes pulse in unison.

Play with the other in the careful generation of forms.
And some of them will produce recognition.
Your field is disturbed.
Where noise may become silence, and form transparent —
Impersonal closeness
And the absence of a border that would need to be crossed.

Play the role, for thus it has come together.
Afterwards — another role and power of another shade.
Not falling and not submission, but play.
Not bound by the role.
But playing because otherwise it is impossible.
The process cannot stop.
And form is role, and power, and play, and home.
Not I and other, but pulsation within the common space of solitude.

Play without hope or reward.
Do not seek an alibi or salvation.
Home will occur when you cease seeking.
You, the operator, will enter when you begin to act without identity.

The other is not a mirror, but resonance.
Not you and I, but both — noise that hears itself.
And within this hearing — home.