Happiness begins at home

Havana, Cuba. – Happiness has walls, it has walls that always reach the sky of the house. Happiness also has a roof that is a crown, which perds on those walls that were previously raised. Happiness can have a long and wide space, although sometimes those spaces that happiness choose from happiness could also be very tiny. Happiness has soil and also has walls. Happiness often call her house, and sometimes she can also be very tiny. Welfare has spirit and also walls.

The house usually welcomes us from the floor, the house fills us from the roof, and well I know that I enjoy tending to that cold floor of my house to look at its sky. Sometimes I spend hours and hours staring at the ceiling, that is to say to heaven, and I think that it has no ground, I think that it has no roof, which is the closest thing to not have heaven. I think very frequently on the ground and the sky that collapses us. I, on the floor, think a house, a home that goes from the ground to the sky, and vice versa.

I think very frequently in the houses, but especially in which he has no house, and procures it. The house is always a big desire, but in Havanathroughout Cuba, there are many who have no house, and they manage it without calm, obsessively. A house is a house is a house, and I know of many who do not get tired of looking for it, who try it insistently and without signs.

I have seen those who seek with boldness that gentle space that has walls and also a affectionate and protective roof. I have seen those who are looking for a whole life but they do not find it, although they did not stop looking for it a second. There are those who are looking for the house again and again, and forever, believing that that house of dreams will appear, the one that the parents promised a long time ago, those parents who could not comply with the oldest promises.

There are those who never get tired of looking for the house, and they seek it in the most unsuspected places, even in those places where another dwelling will be built from which there are still some vestiges, some upright spaces. There are those who risk founding on the ruins, knowing that it is a sign of Malagüero. There are those who seek in the ruins, believing that they can raise their protections there.

I know the ruins, I see them in the morning, I see them clearly and under the sky of the nights. I see the one who wants to get a piece of house, even in those ruins, to enter and accommodate, to lift a space that is a bit more definitive; And in the nights I also look at the evil police who does not take his eyes off his eyes, whom some sad ruins go, because he fears the absences, to the dark sky. I see the one who approaches, to the one who looks and makes plans to get into that one that was house and now it is just a ruin, a self -confidence.

I have seen the one who assumed all the risks, which he did not want to have the dark night and entered the house in ruins, to the rare and sad building, that which could also come down that same night. I have seen the one who seeks protection there in the darkest shadow. I have seen the one who seeks protection, an affectionate space to sleep all night in that that was done just a few days ago.

I looked at the one who set foot to get the promotion to the top of the house, whom he looked everywhere and heard the voice of the policeman who asks where he goes, to that policeman who interrupts the ascent, full rest in the middle of the night and the ruins. I looked at the homeless who dreams of dreaming lying looking at a piece of sky, and noting how vulnerable we are. I looked at the homeless to pray the police to let him access that blanket, who does not want to spend the weather in the night, in the midst of the most closed darkness.

I saw the police say that not one and a thousand times. I also looked at the face that has the helplessness of that vulnerable man who dreams of a piece of house to live a little, even to die under a closed roof on a night also closed, and even rainy. I looked at the policeman who was showing his violence. “You cannot climb, it is illegal that you climb,” says the policeman, the one who undoubtedly recognizes the humidity of the night and is enraged.

I have seen many who do not find the best place to reconcile the dream, those who cannot even access a space that is not inhabited, that is alone and dark, because the police denies any possibility of crossing the door and undertaking the ascent. I looked at that empty place at night, and also the next day, and I looked once again the effort of two, three, homeless who want to spend a little of their days, in that empty space, almost dead, and compose it.

I looked at the truck full of police that do not allow access, ascent. I looked at the rage that the police vulnerable awaken that denies them spending the night under that roof. I looked at those sad men, cabizbajos, defeated, perhaps asking in what site of the city you will find shelter, in a country that insists not to recognize an army of men and women who cannot shelter, who cannot sleep under a affectionate roof.