Three
girls sit together tight, intertwined with each other. They look at us, each
from her own gaze, and
together, take a slight leap in their chairs.
Sadness is
a vague matter, like the atmosphere that surrounds these girls. An atmosphere woven from
a vaporous yet surprisingly solid material. As for the girls, we don't know what they are made
of. Neither approaching to them or sticking our nose to the limit that separates us
will
reveal their riddle. But they are definitely there, that is a fact. They exist
and they stare at us; perhaps even breathe; and —I know it is daring to say this, but
why not— sometimes I believe I hear them speak.
The old
persistence on capturing time seems resolved in a way as simple as the action
of catching air in a jar.
Whatever retains and keeps these girls together contains time and air as well;
as much air and as much time as it can fit in such a small space: a breath of
air, one- or two-minutes time and just three girls (not even one of them being
complete).
Air, time
and girls are rock-solid, but they move slightly. They are air, time and girls, but
they are also something else, something that bears no name and has an arbitrary
form —that of the box that used to contain them—. The box no longer exists.
They —air, time and girls—are the ghost of the box; they are their own box.
