Being is the continual arrangement of cubes of solitude; brick upon brick, silence upon silence. Across the expanse of Koblen, form rises not for ornament but to bear witness to the weight of time. Thousands of bricks—these cells baked from earth—stand in a weary yet dynamic order to prevent the collapse of meaning; yet what, in truth, stands on the verge of collapse except the illusion of stability?
The structure is a dialectic between being and nonbeing: a solid cube, a profound void. It is as though architecture were a clumsy imitation of the pulse of life; where whatever you fill opens a cavity within itself, and whatever you diminish leaves behind an accumulation of absence.
And the trees… these mournful standers. They are metaphors of a failed escape. They dream of the sky, yet the earth has bound their green wings. In an eternal silence they watch the mountain—a mountain that knew the secret of stillness before these cubes, and after them will continue to sink into its own indifferent eternity.
The human being is imprisoned in his cube, and the world is released into its boundlessness. In this circular geometry, the ceiling of one is the floor of another, and the boundary between above and below is merely a bitter jest played upon our perception; for in the futile repetition of forms, no level stands closer to God.
The walls, with their solidity, command a halt: “Stay!” Yet the wandering spirit asks, “Where to?” when outside is merely a larger version of the same inner prison. As light slips across the sharp edges of these volumes, shadows spread upon the ground like elongated corpses. When night arrives, the cubes sink into their darkness, returning once more to their original body: cubes made for waiting—waiting for something that perhaps never existed.
And this is our fate: to continue. To place brick upon brick in the heavy silence of the plain. A structure that has dried like a sudden cough frozen in the throat of the mountains; a sculpture of fear and beauty, and a handful of lonely squares that, between nothingness and wind, patiently watch their own decay.